His voice
by KJayne
Summary: What if the Phantom hadn't been so jealous to reveal himself on the night of Christine's Debut? In this tale, Christine stays true to her Angel while he secretly works on his masterpiece, but on the debut of his Opera her Don Juan seems seems to be an Angel in disguise. First POTO Fanfic. Very Musical based. Rated M for sexual content in later chapters.
1. Chapter One

**_A/N: Hello! Welcome. I have a bit of a slow start to my story, but it does pick up.  
_****_So please, give the story a chance and enjoy yourself!_**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, names characters, places are fictional and not my work.  
_**

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**His Voice**

**Chapter One**

**Paris, 1874**

In the darkness of the small dormitory lay a huddled blanket in the corner of the room. Underneath this blanket was a young girl, no older than eleven years old, whose cries of pain were once piercing through the silence had now become muffled as she slowly drifted into sleep.

Christine Daae had once had many dreams, dreams in which her father would watch her sing and dance in front of hundreds of people. She would perform for him, to make his ambitions for his only daughter come true and watch as that caring smile she loved so much spread across his face.

But fate took her father from her and along with it her dreams. Now the dreams had become nightmares, full of lonely darkness. Her father's death had left her with nothing but a gaping hole which his love and music used to fill. His final words to her continuously ran through her fragile mind, a promise she held onto which kept her from falling apart completely.

"_When I am in heaven child, I will send you the Angel of Music…_"

It had been several months since his parting to Heaven and there was still no Angel. Christine's new guardian, Madam Giry, was very strict but still lovely at heart. Christine knew she was extremely lucky to be in the care of such a person. However the place in which she now lived was the last place she would rather be. After losing all interest in her passion she was pushed completely into the arms of the Opera Populaire where she lived and breathed performance. Madam's influence ensured that Christine continued what she and her father had started, but try as she might her heart was just not there for the splendours the Opera House offered.

This was the night that everything changed. Christine's recurring nightmare had spared her, leaving her to enjoy a peaceful slumber...

_She began floating on a cloud, weightless and relaxed for the first time in months. She rose, enjoying the feeling of the pearly white softness beneath her little toes. She liked it there in her own little world with nothing but open sky in front of her. Christine wanted to fly as far as she could through the deep blue sky, counting the stars each one brighter than the next. She pirouetted perfectly and dived as fast as she could; the dark grass beneath her grew steadily closer, wind rushed through her curls… She was just an arm length away… She took a deep breath and landed with a soft 'flump' on the cool grass…_

"Christine…"

Christine's eyes fluttered open slowly. She had become vaguely aware of the soft mattress beneath her, of the cold pillow beneath her ear. She squinted in the darkness searching the shadows, hoping, _wishing _upon one of the stars in her dream that she had finally been worthy of her Angel's presence.

"Angel?" She whispered.

The room was as empty as it had been before; the shadows were just shadows and the voice she thought she had heard was a distant wind which had fluttered into the room through the gap under the door. Christine's eyes drooped in exhaustion as she fell instantly into slumber again.

But in the dim light of morning one question circled her unsettled mind; how had she woken up in her bed?

* * *

The Opera Populaire stood in the heart of Paris; a building made of white marble with large stone pillars on the front outer wall. It was raised four tiers above ground level, with an amphitheatre gallery, balconies and, for the upper class, private boxes. The charm of the Opera House invited patrons from all over Europe who had a particular interest in the sublime architecture, and not to mention the beautiful young dancers.

Yes, the Opera Populaire was a great entertainment venue and a huge success. But beneath all of the sparkling marble, glittering chandeliers and fine entertainment were dark passageways, trapdoors and even talk of an Opera Ghost. A phantom, that flitted through the corridors by night, watching over the Opera House and determining how the theatre should be run. Stories say that this 'ghost' was neither man nor spirit but an entity hovering between life and death. That he lived deep within the Opera House where no human could find him. Some say that he is as old as the Opera House himself as he helped to build it! No one dared cross the Phantom of the Opera for they knew it came with a fate worse than death.

This was only half true, for the man who resided under the pseudonym of 'Opera Ghost' was just that; a man. His name was Erik. He had travelled the world in his prime and learnt of many things but carried with him a dark past, a past in which no one would fully understand. He did indeed stalk the halls of the Populaire by night, live beneath the Opera House far away from prying eyes, and had quite a fair share in the running of the house in exchange of twenty thousand francs a month for his services; a fee in which the manager, Monsieur Lefèvre, was keen to oblige.

Erik was a tormented soul since childhood, never knowing love and compassion, only feeling pain and destruction. He had learned that solitude was his better option and that this way he would only have to rely on himself alone. When he wasn't watching the world above in their petty day to day lives, he spent his time hidden away in the darkness of his chambers, composing pieces to be used in his very own operas which the house above would perform. Music was his lifeline and his means of escape from his troubled past.

This was until one night on his routine stroll around the dark corridors; he came across a strange sound emerging from one of the Ballet dormitories. It sounded muffled and strained, like someone was trying to strangle the life from a struggling animal. His general curiosity took over giving him the incentive to look inside the room in question and put his prying eyes to rest. Erik opened the door and peered into the darkness. He had lived in the dark for so long that his eyes were able to adapt to the surroundings quicker than a normal persons would. The room appeared empty on his first search but as he followed the muffled sounds he came across a thin moth-eaten blanket in the corner of the room, dark curly hair was spilling out from underneath over the stone floor.

So this was the young Daae, daughter of the Violinist. He had heard stories of the poor Swedish orphan through the grapevine; people had said that she could be a protégé if it had not have been for her Father's death taking all of her passion from her and leaving nothing but depression in its wake. Erik frowned at the thought; such a sad tale, to let such talent go to waste over a loss.

Her crying had begun to turn into a painful wail like a cat whose tail had just been sharply trodden on. Erik snapped his hands to his ears keeping the sound from forming as a memory; of all the horrors he had lived through in his life this was something he was not keen to remember. It was hard for a man never knowing any compassion to begin to feel remorse for the poor innocent child. He wanted to leave, to run like he always did from the pain in the world and hide deep within his own kingdom beneath the Opera House but something kept him there rooted to the spot in the shadows, waiting patiently for the moment when she would cry herself into slumber.

The minutes passed and the child's wailing slowly turned into dry heaving. The poor dear had cried herself into exhaustion with the only sounds erupting from under the blanket being her sniffles and short gasps from what Erik could only assume was her little form touching the cold stone floor beneath her. He sighed lifting himself from a low crouch in the shadows and crossing the room in a couple of steps to her side. He scooped her up lightly in his arms holding her like she was made of glass, like the slightest grip too tight would crush her to dust. He could tell from her tiny form that she had a fragile soul which already needed a lot of healing at such a young age. He could sympathise there knowing all too well how a broken heart and soul could affect you in later life.

Erik sighed, "Christine…" He placed her down on the bed and stroked her hair lightly, the soft strands running through his long fingers.

"Angel…?" Christine whispered. Her eyes had slowly fluttered open, but the pressure of her eyelids made her vision hazy. He was safe where he was, standing deadly still in the shadow by her bedside; if she were to reach out now she would be able to cling to the hem of his cloak. Her energy had lasted but a brief second, for she collapsed on the bed once more and into an instant slumber.

* * *

He hadn't realised where he was until he had arrived, his feet seemed to have carried him without his consent. He stood on the roof of the Opera House at the base of Apollo's Lyre staring out into the night's sky. What had she meant by _Angel_? Erik felt a strange tightening in his chest as he thought of Christine; her poor frail form lying there alone in the dark conflicted by pain. He wanted nothing more than to be able to reach out and comfort the poor child, and to live up to this _Angel_ persona she had called for. He was anything _but_, yet he _needed_ to be her Angel.

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**A/N: I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter, which isn't a good start to a new story. I have an idea and I really hope I manage to please you with it. Please review and let me know your thoughts.**


	2. Chapter Two

_**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the lovely characters or settings in this here story.**_

_**A/N: The creative juices are flowing! Please enjoy this as much as possible.**_

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**Chapter Two**

As the weeks passed Christine began to show a vast improvement within her. When she arrived at the Opera Populaire she had been the quiet Swedish girl whom her peers kept their distance out of respect for her mourning; yet now her brown eyes glistened with curiosity as she explored the Opera House's halls. She had lived within these high walls for over half a year but had seen nothing but darkness since her arrival. Christine had finally been released from the hold the darkness had on her and was able to start fresh; her father's memory still lingered in her mind and the tears did occasionally fall, but they were silent and easily hidden.

Christine had many new friends among the ballet girls but there was one young girl in particular she grew really attached with: Meg Giry, daughter of the Ballet Mistress, Madam Giry – who was also Christine's guardian since her father's passing. Christine had known Meg for a long time; they used to play when Christine's father brought her to the Giry household for Sunday afternoon tea. Meg could sympathise with Christine over her loss, having lost her father at a young age also. As Christine's sadness distanced their friendship she was able to stay patient, knowing that in time Christine would return.

Christine and Meg would sneak into each other's dormitories after dark and swap stories, their giggles muffled by their blankets as they tried in vain to keep quiet in case they were caught. Sometimes they would talk into the early hours of the morning, only securing a couple of hours' worth of sleep to which Madam Giry had grown impatient and punished them for. Their playful manners had disrupted many crucial ballet lessons, but Madam couldn't find it in her heart to be completely strict at the pair for this was Christine's new found happiness and she wanted to keep her that way.

And though their friendship had blossomed over this short period Christine couldn't help but think of the biggest secret of all that she was keeping from her new best friend. She might tell her, in time, but as her secret had only just become hers she wanted to keep it private for at least a little while. Christine had only been visited by the voice twice in the weeks that passed and she often found herself remembering the first time she had heard it…

_It had been three days since the night she believed she had heard her Angel call her name, though she had been so exhausted from her sadness that she wasn't sure if she had imagined the whole thing. She sat on the window ledge of her dormitory looking out of the tiny window onto the street below. She sighed and began to hum her favourite piece which her father used to play her on his Violin; she smiled at the sweet memory._

'_Christine…'_

_She jumped to her feet at once and searched around her small room for the voice she had just heard. It sounded so close as though someone had spoken directly into her ear. _

'_Angel?' She asked._

'_Yes, child, I am here. I am your Angel of Music.' _

_The Voice was unlike any she had heard in her little time on this Earth. It was definitely a male voice, deep and powerful even in a slight whisper. It had charmed her from the very first instant and she longed to hear it again to commit it to her memory. _

_Her breathing became shallow in excitement as she thought carefully over her words; what does one say to such a being?_

'_Did my father send you? He promised he would.' Christine almost jumped up and down in eagerness._

'_I know.' There was a short pause, 'I heard you hum before; such a sweet little voice you have, child.' _

_Christine smiled; the first positive emotion she had felt in months. Her cheeks ached from the pressure but she couldn't stop. It had been so long since she used her voice for anything more than answering simple questions that she had forgotten how much she enjoyed the praise she received._

'_There is much to be done!' The Voice said suddenly in a matter-of-fact tone, 'If you wish it to be so I shall tutor you and together we will develop your voice to that of one of the Angel's above.'_

_Christine's eyes lit up. She opened her mouth to speak but thought of a better idea at the last moment. The words formed in her head and left her lips in a soft melody._

_**Angel I hear you,  
speak, I listen.  
Stay by my side,  
Guide me.**_

_Her voice cracked and blood flew to her cheeks in embarrassment. She could hear a low chuckle in her ears from her Angel; it seemed he had enjoyed her effort._

'_I will always be around, Christine. Say the word and I will be there.'_

_Christine gasped, 'Angel?' She knew from the tone of his voice that his presence was leaving her for the time being, yet she still had many more questions that she desperately wanted an answer to._

'_You need your sleep, child. You may ask one last question of me.' The Voice was strict but still kept its overtone of care._

'_When will you return to me?' Christine closed her eyes and felt her Angel's final words wash comfort over her._

'_As I said: say the word and I will be there.'_

'_Thank you.'_

* * *

Erik had watched Christine from a distance for the next three days. He found it easy enough to conceal himself from her eyes by using his knowledge of the Populaire's hidden passages while staying by her side at the same time. He observed her actions to which there seemed to be a slight improvement within her, and yet her sadness still shone through more than anything. He noticed that she was able to sleep more soundly since the night he had found her, but something still troubled the young girls mind. She would cry out in her sleep; sometimes only small mutterings but there seemed to be a main occurrence of an 'Angel of Music' in her dreams. Could this be the Angel that she had called him on that night, the Angel that he desperately wanted to be?

He found her sitting by the dingy window of her dormitory on the third night. She stared out into the street below and sighed deeply, her eyes glazing over as she lost herself within her thoughts. She absent minded began to hum what he noticed to be Chopin's _Nocturne_; her voice was so soft yet so powerful – it had such an impact on his mind and soul, he _longed_ to hear more.

Erik had learned several tricks in his travels and many of them were used to successfully fool the Opera House into believing in the Phantom which haunted the halls. He had no intention in fooling this child in the spiteful way he had everyone else in his life, and yet it seemed the only way to start a relationship with her. She needed something to believe in and he wanted to be that something.

From his hiding place he muttered her name. With his superb use of ventriloquism he knew that it sounded to her like he was standing right next to her.

'Christine…'

Her hair bounced in its wild curls as she jumped to her feet and searched around the small room for the culprit. He smiled slightly at her effort.

'Angel?' She asked.

'Yes, child, I am here. I am your Angel of Music.' He muttered; his eyes transfixed on the small form of Christine in the centre of the room. Her eyes lit up at his words and the sweetest tint of pink flushed to her cheeks. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

'Did my father send you? He promised he would.'

Erik stopped short. This was something he hadn't expected; he didn't want to build up her hopes and crush them to dust if she happened to find out the truth, but what he had started was already bad enough. He instead chose to avoid the question; an indirect answer could spare him.

'I know.' He paused while choosing his words wisely; he thought it better to change the subject slightly. 'I heard you hum before, such a sweet little voice you have.'

She blushed an even darker shade of pink which had already tainted her cheeks as a huge smile spread across her face. Bless this child! She was so precious. He couldn't help himself but to stare at her. Others may have deemed this indecent, for a man nearing thirty to crave a child's attention, yet he found that he just wanted to know her, to teach her and to protect her. He voiced one of his desires; the one he believed would help satisfy the other two.

Her way of acceptance stunned him more than her presence. He heard the Angels above speak, the birds singing their morning songs. Her voice was timid as she sung the few words that made his heart melt. She hid her face after the last note, only the redness of her forehead showing him her true emotion. He chuckled and offered her his sincerest reply.

'I will always be around, Christine. Say the word and I will be there.' As he spoke the words he felt them deep down in his own soul that he would keep to them. He knew how much she needed him now after their first brief encounter, and had realised just how much he needed her too.

Erik felt a tinge of disappointment in the idea of departing from his hiding place to the dark depths of his home beneath the Opera House but alas, he left his Angel to her ablutions and rest. It took him a matter of minutes to travel down through five cellars to his home by a glossy underground lake. He stormed through the door removing his jacket as he walked. Erik stood at just over six feet tall. He had a rather 'lanky' frame, some would say he looked quite under nourished and yet he sported a lot of muscle and strength beneath his smart outfits. As he crossed his hallway and entered his music room he unclipped the cufflinks at each wrist and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His hands shot up to his black hair stroking it back out of his eyes. As his hands descended to his sides, one lingered slightly over his dark secret; a mask sat in place on the right side of his face, from forehead to chin. It was made of pure porcelain beautifully crafted by his own hands fitting the exact contours of his features. The left side of his face was very handsome with its clear and fair complexion, strong jawline, piercing green eyes and full lips. But underneath the mask was his nightmare; a horror which he had endured since his birth; a horror which had driven all forms of relationship with another human being from his grasp. He had spent many years cursing the skies above for his misfortune, but to no avail. He let a defeated sigh escape from his lips as he entered his dark study.

Like all of the rooms in his small house by the lake this one was completely pitch black upon entering. Erik set himself about the normal duties of lighting candles around the room and a fire in the grate. His study held more than just a writing desk and a mantel piece; he had collected many curious objects in his travels which were scattered across the room. A piano sat in the shaded corner with stave paper scattered across the top and the floor around.

Erik slid his elegant fingers over the ivory keys of the piano, melodies coursing through his head just dying to come out. He sat down slowly and closed his eyes, ready to lose himself in the music; twinkling harmonies flowing over dark melodies, deep booming base notes bridging sweet chords to clashing notes. He knew not of how long he played but when he finally did emerge from his work he felt like a new man with a new muse.

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**A/N: This chapter was supposed to be published at a later date but I just couldn't wait! Also I am aware that so far this story has been showing the point of view for both characters and there's a bit of repetition; this will cease in later chapters.**

**Please R&R.**


	3. Chapter Three

_**Disclaimer: I, KJayne, do not own the characters, setting or overall general idea of Le Fantome de l'Opera.**_

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**Chapter Three**

**1878**

"Again, child…"

Erik's voice was strained from exhaustion and his patience was slowly wearing thin. He had been working non-stop on his masterpiece for a week straight but he had hit a wall, a barrier he needed to cross in order to move forward. He thought having a lesson with Christine would ease his mind; that his muse would inspire as she always had done so flawlessly, but he was wrong. Her incompetence and distracted mind was making him angry.

Christine sighed. She had always enjoyed her sessions with her Angel, but his attitude today was starting to become a real pain in the neck.

"Why do you sigh? Do you not wish to learn today?" Erik snapped.

Christine glared, "I do, Angel, but I do not appreciate your tone."

"And I do not appreciate a distracted student when I am trying to teach!" He spat his words in disgust. She winced and proceeded to leave the room, away from his hostile manner. Erik cursed violently and slammed his fists against the walls of his hiding place, his knuckles bruised instantly from the impact, but even the numb pain in his fingers couldn't distract him from her insolence.

Once out in the corridor Christine collapsed against the wall with her head in her hands. Angel's, she thought, were meant to be peaceful creatures consisting of nothing but eternal light and goodness, but her Angel was something else. His voice was definitely that of an Angel, there was no doubt of it. It filled her spirit with such emotion that she'd never felt before in her whole life, but his persona, if Angel's even _had_ persona's, was so temperamental. It had only been of late that his anger seemed to show through more in their lessons and it was starting to really frighten her. His presence was something she was starting to seek less and less as the days went by. Her beautiful Angel was turning into a fearsome demon.

And yet she couldn't help but think that this was somehow her fault. Try as hard as she might she just couldn't remember what she had done to infuriate her master but still his temper remained. She felt herself close to tears which took all of her control to hold back. She was becoming a young lady now, and she had sworn to herself that she wouldn't cry like a child every time something upset her; young ladies do not cry!

She took a few deep breaths and returned to her room. Erik watched as she entered, his anger was at its peak ready to spill over the surface. He had no other way of venting his annoyance whilst trapped in his hiding space. His voice was at her ear again as soon as she had taken her hand off of the door handle.

"How dare you leave during our lesson? You are wasting my time, child, and I do not appreciate your selfishness." His voice was laced with acid and with an undertone of disappointment; it sent shivers down her spine. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"How dare you take your anger out on me?" Her voice shook as she tried to keep her composure, "I wish to learn but I cannot when you treat me with such disrespect."

There was silence for some time which made Christine believe her Angel had left without another word. She sat down on her bed and smoothed her skirts to pass the time, listening carefully for even a whisper in response to her remark.

Erik was stunned at her sheer growth of backbone; gone were the days of a child who cried at most things. All of these years had passed since her had first set his eyes on her and the years had strengthened her greatly. He felt himself rather impressed at her tenacity, but even more so at her reaction to his anger. Erik had been in many a situation where his anger had gotten the better of him which resulted in severe consequences to the other party, but Christine, she could walk away unscathed, she could fight back.

"I think, my dear, that we shall conclude our lesson for today." Christine gave a sharp nod in agreement; she felt that she had nothing else to say to him, that she didn't _want_ to speak to him for today at least. "We shall resume our lesson within the new week."

And with that Erik departed. The image of Christine's annoyance was still fresh in his mind and he fought hard to keep it there as he walked briskly back to his lair. He felt his aggravation slowly dissipate as a new wave of inspiration washed over him. Christine was truly remarkable, he thought, for each and every emotion she showed inspired him in a new way. He had started a masterpiece built around the sin of lust, full of passion and heated desire, and Christine had given him anger, and a new direction for his Opera.

* * *

The only sound Christine could hear was the ringing in her ears from the deadening silence of her dormitory. It had been only five minutes since her Angel had taken his leave and yet it felt like days. For the first time since their meeting when she was eleven years old she felt alone, she felt that his presence had truly left the space around her; she felt cold. Christine wrapped her arms around her torso and slumped down onto her bed. Would he think her ungrateful? Would he leave to seek another worthy of his lessons?

In that instant the door to her dormitory sharply opened bringing Christine back to reality. It was Meg standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and a small smile flittering around her lips. She took in Christine's small form lying on the bed clutching at her arms; it reminded her a lot of Christine's mourning period, how she could see her friend felt so alone that the only comfort she could gain was by holding herself tightly and promising it would be all right. Meg's smile faltered.

"Christine? What's wrong?" She shut the door quietly and walked to Christine's side, placing a gentle hand on her skirts. She rubbed slow circles over the fabric in comfort.

Christine hesitated. It had been four long years of carrying around the secret of her Angel. Meg, her best friend, had no clue of the wonders inside her head. She had noticed (as had many others in the Opera House) that Christine's voice had progressed so much since she arrived, and even before then when she used to sing along to her father's Violin at Sunday tea. And yet Christine was still unsure as to whether or not she should reveal her private life.

"Oh Meg, I have had the most rotten morning!" Christine sat up and clasped Meg's hands in hers, staring her deeply in the eyes. She sighed and thought of the best way to approach the subject. Meg released a hand a twisted her fingers into the loose curls at the bottom of Christine's long hair in comfort.

"You can tell me anything, Christine." Meg cooed. She smiled sweetly, still playing with the loose strand of Christine's hair. The gentle tug sent small shivers down Christine's spine. She sat up straight, closed her eyes and breathed deep. She wondered if her Angel would hear her speak of him, and wondered if he would be angry.

"My father used to comfort me when I was small with stories of Angels." She watched Meg smile at the reminiscence, "He spoke once about an Angel of Music, a being who would be able guide me and watch over me as I learnt to perfect my voice." She moved her hand to her throat as she spoke.

"He said: '_when I am in Heaven, child, I will send you the Angel of Music.'. _When he died I felt so alone but I waited; I clung to the promise my father had made to me…"

Christine rose suddenly and crossed the room in two steps to her small window. Staring out onto the street below as she continued her story. "Months passed and I started to become more upset and isolated – You saw how low I became! It had seemed that my father's words had betrayed me." She turned to look at her best friend and blushed. Meg was perched on the edge of the bed and seemed to be hanging on every word. She was such a good audience.

"Oh, Meg, you will think me mad!" Christine cried.

Meg giggled, "It is all terribly exciting, Christine. The idea that an Angel of Heaven would be teaching you music?!" her eyes sparkled in amazement. Meg was a few months older than Christine but when it came to the strange and mysterious she just couldn't help but be intrigued. Upon hearing of the infamous 'Opera Ghost' Meg had spent her spare moments between ballet classes hiding out in concealed places hoping to catch a glimpse of the Phantom stalking the halls.

Christine rolled her eyes at her friend's amusement. "Oh, Meg, you do not know the half of it! One night I was sitting where I am now staring down at the street below when I heard the most beautiful voice. It was unlike anything I had ever heard in my entire life; it was soft, like a flutter of butterfly wings at my ear, it was deep but not rough, it was uniquely pleasant!" Christine smiled at the thought of his voice at her ear, his breathing down her neck. It made her shiver in excitement.

"Your Angel is a man?!" Meg cried, "Christine, he sounds _dreamy_, or at least, _his voice_ does."

"Meg, you would say such things," Christine scoffed. "And Angel's aren't just _women_ like you see in the pictures!" she added. "My Angel isn't a man exactly, but a male voice; I do not know how to properly explain."

Meg rolled her eyes, "So, go on, what happened?" she urged.

"Well, our first meeting was very short." Meg stifled a giggle, "He told me that if I wish it he would teach me to sing like one of the Angels above. And now when I sing I can sense him, and I know he's here!" Christine crossed the room and sat down beside her friend, "He's an unseen genius, Meg." Christine looked down at her hands, the smile across her face vanished slowly as she thought of the morning she had just had, of the first proper argument with her Angel. It was tearing her in two not knowing what would happen between them. "And then today in our lesson, we argued."

Meg rested her head on Christine's shoulder, "This is _your_ Angel, Christine. No argument no matter how big or small, how stupid or trivial, would drive someone like that away."

"It frightens me…" Christine mumbled.

"Don't be frightened, Christine."

* * *

Erik emerged from his study in the early hours of the morning. He looked a mess compared to his normal neat attire; his hair stood up on end, his shirt unbuttoned half way and untucked from his dress trousers. However this wasn't as strange of a sight compared to the grin spread across his face. He looked like a madman emerging from the scene of a heinous crime. He laughed out loud, a deep booming laugh which echoed in the vast space of his hallway.

"Ah, Christine." He sighed. His muse had prevailed once again in giving him the inspiration he needed. He felt refreshed, younger even, like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

But as quickly as this weight had been lifted, another set itself into position which appeared much heavier than before. He realised now, in hindsight, how much of a bastard he had been to his Angel, of how horrid he must seem to her now. The polite Angel, her guardian, had suddenly turned sour and evil, more of a demon than anything else.

Erik began to pace the hall wondering, questioning; what time was it? Would she still be awake? Would she hear his call? Would she speak to him? He knew that only one thing was for certain; he had to see her.

There is no time to waste, he thought. He hastily tucked in his shirt and smoothed his hair; the Opera House above would be silent and empty at this time of night so he had no intention of making himself look properly presentable. He donned a light jacket and departed from his home by the lake to the House above. It took him only a matter of minutes to ascend the five levels between him and his Angel but the longing inside of his chest made it feel much longer. He hated being parted from her, hated not knowing what she was doing, or how she was feeling. He couldn't bear to see her cry like she had done the night he found her; alone, so very alone.

Erik knew the Opera House like the back of his hand and therefore was able to avoid any creaking floorboards, doors or anything else loud for that matter. He entered Christine's dormitory and found himself straight at her bedside. She was sleeping peacefully, not even a mark of emotion on her pale face. Her hair fell in chestnut waves half down her torso and half scattered across her pillow. The gentle rise and fall of her steady breathing was the only thing which made her look human and less like a china doll, so fragile and perfect. She was absolutely stunning.

"Christine…" he whispered, his cool breath blew across her sleeping form. Her eyelids fluttered as she slept no doubt from the dreams in her head. He traced a delicate finger across her cheek bone and sighed. He knew of the emotions which plagued him ever since he first set his eyes on her, but he couldn't admit to them. It was disgusting, immoral, just plain _wrong_ to covet such an innocent being, so young.

He sighed once more before removing a single red rose from his pocket. He wrapped a black ribbon around the stem and placed in gently on the pillow next to her for when she awoke in an hour's time.

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**A/N: Please R&R. I love to hear feedback and would love to know what you guys think.**


	4. Chapter Four

_**Disclaimer: I do not own... bla bla bla...**_

_**A/N: I received some lovely reviews after my last update, thank you so much. **_

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**Chapter Four**

The rising sun streamed through the small window of Christine's bedroom instantly illuminating the walls by her bed. She stirred, her eyes creasing at the harshness of the morning light as she rolled onto her side and hid her face from the thought of morning. She breathed deep, taking in the distant smell of porridge from the kitchens down the hall and strange closer scent of fresh roses. It wasn't until she opened her groggy eyes that she found the source of the gorgeous smell.

The sight of the deep red rose resting gently on her pillow made her blush. It was the sweetest gesture she had ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of. Her heart seemed to swell inside of her chest as she thought of the one person this could have been, of her Angel.

Christine dragged herself away from the warmth of her thin bed covers and tiptoed across the cold stone floor. She set herself about her ablutions and prepared herself for the day, dressing in her white tutu and ballet pumps for her morning rehearsal. The Opera Populaire were putting on their first production of the new ballet _Swan Lake _which was to open in a month; Meg had secured the part of the beautiful Odette, her first lead role to which she was incredibly excited. The other girls had become suspicious and spread such vicious lies between them that Meg had only secured the lead role due to her mother's position of Ballet Mistress. Monsieur Lefèvre had stressed to the girls that this was not true and that he personally had asked for her to receive the title role, however Meg was so ecstatic and couldn't care less what the other girls thought of her; in her eyes this was the beginning of a fabulous career in performance.

The morning rehearsal was to last for two hours before breakfast but as hard as she tried Christine just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than her Angel. The rehearsal warm-up consisted of Pointe work, to which she just couldn't stand still long enough in this position and her technique was all wrong. Madam Giry stressed that she must concentrate or suffer with extra lessons to keep up. She was letting the Corps du ballet down with her daydreams. It seemed that being of a distracted mind was getting her into a lot of trouble the last couple of days.

* * *

Christine was rather relieved when Madam Giry called the girls together for the summary of the end of their lesson. Her disappointment in Christine's performance today resulted in her demanding that she practice _properly_ for she would not tolerate any mistakes in the performance. Christine muttered her apologies to the Ballet Mistress but still couldn't bring herself to face the reality in front of her; her head was still stuck in a dream world as she thought of her Angel.

The rose which she found that morning sat safely on her small bedside cabinet in the cool shade of her dormitory. Christine had hoped that she would have time to call upon her Angel, to receive the honour of his presence for today; but after yesterday's argument she wondered if it would be entirely plausible. She sighed and hung her head in disappointment.

"Oh I do hope they have something better than that _ghastly _porridge today!" Meg chimed as she made her way across the empty practice space to Christine's side, "I have certainly worked up an appetite!" She smiled and cocked her head to the side, gazing into Christine's eyes.

Meg entwined her fingers with Christine's and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, "Come, let's walk."

The space in which the Corps du ballet used each morning for practice was on the right side of the Opera House in a windowless room too small for practice. This was the case for all of the spaces within the Opera Populaire which were not for public use. Madam Giry had constantly stressed her displeasure and requested a more adequate space for her troop, but had been unsuccessful many times. This space was the largest they could acquire for their practices which meant the girls had to travel from their dormitories on the other side of the Opera House to here every day. Meg and Christine had decided to take an indirect route back to the kitchens which resulted in passing over the Foyer balcony. On this occasion they were greeted by a commotion in the Foyer below.

"Ah, Signora, welcome to the Opera Populaire!" Monsieur Lefèvre could be seen bowing low and planting a light kiss on the hand of a large red-headed woman. Christine stopped a gazed over the balcony at the lady her Manager was addressing; her eyebrows rose as she took in the sight of the foul creature. Her face was caked in make-up which looked like she had been smacked with a paint pallet; her clothes were far too tight as she tried to squeeze her large fame into a corset too small. She stood in front of large crowd of the Opera House staff glaring down at each and every one of them as if she owned them.

"It certainly seems up to the standards of its reviews…" She spoke with a thick Spanish accent.

Monsieur Lefèvre hesitated, "Oui, Signora, I trust you will enjoy you time working here."

The woman nodded and waved her hand at the crowd around her to shoo them from her presence. She turned to a balding man beside her, who stared at her with lustful eyes. "This place will do well for _our_ music, don't you think, Ubaldo?" She fluttered her eyelashes and let out a strange high pitch squeal which echoed throughout the hall. Monsieur Lefèvre directed an airy hand to the corridor leading just off of to the right towards his office. The woman forced herself to be arm in arm with her companion as they ambled off, cackling as they went.

Christine stared open mouthed after them, hoping beyond belief that she had not just heard what she thought she did. Meg threw up her arms in disbelief, "Maman told me about them; Carlotta Giudicelli and Ubaldo Piangi, Spain's leading soprano and tenor voices. Apparently they have already travelled through their own country and Italia and now have settled in France. They are to become our leading voices after _Swan Lake_."

Christine leant against the balcony and slowly slid down onto the floor, deep in thought. She wanted nothing more than to someday be the lead, even if it was just once in _anything_. She constantly watched Meg dance her heart out to make Madam proud and knew in her heart that she was truly worthy of her title in the upcoming performance. She had watched one Soprano leave and another enter over night and even from first sight of the new _prima donna _Christine could tell she was not the kind of person to relinquish her title without a fight.

"Oh, Christine," Meg cooed, "You have blessings from the Angels above when it comes to your voice. Your Angel will guide you onto the right path to decide your fate; maybe you are just not ready yet. Maybe he still has a lot to teach you."

Christine forced herself to smile at Meg's words and took comfort in the fact that at least her best friend always tried.

"And besides," Meg started, taking Christine's hands and pulling her to her feet, "that woman would not last five minutes in this place once le Fantome has his way!"

Christine giggled and squeezed Meg's hands, "Oh, Meg, I do believe you are obsessed with this Ghost!" she giggled once more and led the way back down the corridor towards the kitchens for their breakfast.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this, although it is only a little filler chapter! I will be updating again very soon (simply because I can't stop typing) and we will be getting juicier.**


	5. Chapter Five

_**A/N: Had myself a bit of a busy end to the week hence the wait for this chapter. I hope it works with the story and you guys enjoy it.**_

_**Warning: sauciness ahead.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own, yada yada, phantom is not mine, bla bla. You know the drill.**_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

La Carlotta and her lover, Signor Piangi, had been relatively distant from the Opera Populaire since their initial appearance until after the success of _Swan Lake_. She had burst through the front doors one Sunday afternoon followed by a number of maids and butlers carrying numerous objects; there were luggage bags, hat boxes, furniture, various dresses and scarves which were made of different animal hides, all of which were supposed to be crammed into her private dressing room.

It only took a matter of two days for the whole of the Opera Populaire Company to realise that their new _prima donna_ was nothing more than a spoilt diva that demanded too much and treated everyone as if they were below her. Many of the staff would disappear as soon as they saw her coming to avoid any unpleasant confrontations.

Christine however, had not been so lucky.

Although she had tried her best to avoid any contact with La Carlotta, she had not always been successful. One morning after rehearsal Christine had stayed in the auditorium instead of following the rest of the chorus girls to breakfast. She danced across the empty stage relishing the silence; she liked to use this time alone to practice the songs she had been instructed to learn by her Angel.

Christine stepped lightly into the middle of the stage and began with some arpeggio warm-ups, her voice reverberating nicely off the empty walls. Angel had said that she needed to become one with her voice, to truly feel the notes and the words. She closed her eyes and began to sing, the words lifting her very spirit to the highest point of the auditorium; she felt as if she was floating through the music.

There was a creak from behind Christine making her stop automatically; the feeling of being watched washed over her, bringing the blood to her cheeks in an instant. She ran from the stage into the wings and bumped straight into La Carlotta.

She stared at Christine with distinctive loathing, "Out of my way, little _toad!_" She shrieked, "Do you not see that I am walking here?" Her thick Spanish accent slurred her words. She roughly pushed Christine against the costume rack making her fall to the ground covered in dresses and coats.

Christine lay beneath the costumes and sighed deeply. She could just lay there forever and not care if anyone found her for it didn't matter to her either way. The minutes ticked by as she laid there deep in thought staring at the backstage balconies used by the stage hands. She was just the chorus girl and backing dancer in the Corps du ballet to which she felt she was mediocre at those roles anyway. None of the patrons or mangers would want her up on that stage doing what she had always dreamed.

Meg came running through the backstage area, her eyes instantly falling on Christine lying amongst the costumes. "Christine?" she gasped, "What are you doing?"

Christine shook her head and disentangled herself from a particularly heavy dress of the 1600 era; she glanced around but found only Meg standing beside her, "Carlotta." She muttered bitterly, "She heard me singing and, well, didn't quite _appreciate_ it."

To Christine's surprise Meg was smiling insanely, "You will _love_ this then." And with that she grabbed Christine's hand and led her from the wings to the dressing rooms. Christine felt as though her arm had been pulled from its socket as she hastily followed her friend down the corridor.

"Meg, where are we going?" she gasped as she tried to keep up.

She didn't answer but continued to lead the way, not letting her grip on Christine's hand loosen the whole journey. They stopped just outside of Carlotta's dressing room; the door was a jar with enough space for them to briefly pop their heads round and look into the room. Christine gave Meg a puzzled look, "What are we doing here?"

Meg sighed and pointed at the door in agitation. Christine popped her head hesitantly into the room, ready to withdraw at the sign of any movement; chorus girls were not allowed to be in the dressing rooms and she didn't want to face more problems today.

The room had been turned upside down; the clothes had been strewn across the room, all of the hats were broken with holes ripped through the top of each one; flowers which once sat in vases were in odd places around the room.

Carlotta lay on the small settee, her eyes closed as she napped. Her hair had been replaced by a hideous wig which made her look even fatter than normal, and there was no doubt that she had actually been hit in the face with a paint pallet; there were spots of multicoloured paint across the visible part of her chest, her eyes were black like those of a panda, her cheeks coloured with fat red circles. It had appeared that whoever had done this had been very keen to make the Populaire's new _prima donna_ look ridiculous; they had obviously been very thorough in the act and yet, it was a wonder that all of this had been done without her noticing. She snored loudly and repositioned herself on the settee as she slept on.

Christine stifled a giggle and withdrew herself to talk to Meg, "Did you do this?"

Meg shook her head and grinned, "No, but you know who did don't you?" she was almost jumping up and down with excitement. "The Opera Ghost!"

Christine tutted and rolled her eyes in amusement.

* * *

Monsieur Lefèvre entered his office that afternoon to find a curious letter on his desk; it was outlined in deep black and sealed with a death's head seal. It sent shivers down his down his spine; his mouth felt dry and his hands shook from nerves. Lefèvre had come to the conclusion that the absence of his invisible _friend _had meant that he was content with how the opera house was being run; he had obviously assumed too quickly.

He closed the door quietly and bolted it, ensuring he had the privacy which was needed in this situation. He almost ran over to his desk and sat down, turning the paper over in his hands. He pulled the seal apart with trembling fingers, wrenched the parchment out from the envelope and brace himself for the impending doom this note had to offer:

'_Dear Lefèvre_

_As of late I have been quite pleased with your co-operation in following my instructions of how I wish my theatre to be run. We have had great success with the shows which I chose for our company to perform.  
__  
However, I must stress that the new soprano you have brought to my theatre displeases me to great lengths; I have watched the way she treats our staff and company alike and believe that she is nothing more than a spoilt monstrosity unworthy of her title._

_Her so called 'talent' remains to be seen in my eyes. If she wishes to continue at my Opera House then she must learn some respect of the people around her. I have already been fashioning you a new soprano for replacement._

_I remain your obedient friend and servant.  
_

_O.G'_

Monsieur Lefèvre stared at the parchment, his eyes glazing over as he fell deep into thought. What did the Opera Ghost mean by 'fashioning a new soprano for replacement'? He barked a cold laugh; a contract had been signed, and he was not one to just ignore a contract under any circumstances, especially not for some mad man who had a so-called replacement. His courage started to build within him as he held the parchment tightly in two hands, ready to tear it down the middle.

"_I wouldn't do that if I were you."_ A deep booming voice muttered in his ear.

All of his new found courage disappeared in an instant upon hearing _his_ voice in his ear. Monsieur Lefèvre hastily dropped the letter into his desk drawer with the others and slammed it tight keeping it hidden away from prying eyes.

* * *

**1881**

_The scene around him flashed a passionate red with every blink. She was seated on his lap, legs wrapped around his back. His eyes rested upon her chest, her bosom rising and falling with every sharp intake of breath. He traced his long fingers along her collarbone and downwards towards her nipple, watching the texture change from soft and relaxed, to tense and erect in one light stroke. He watched as she nibbled on her own bottom lip, her beautiful eyes blazing into his own in a seductive manner._

_**Touch me again**__, they seemed to scream at him._

_His fingertips barely touched her skin as he ran his hands down to her hips, raising goose bumps. He roughly grabbed the flesh behind her hips using them to guide her as she straddled his lap. He could feel his own erection growing inch by inch within his trousers. He glanced down and noticed the trail of wetness from her groin leaving white marks on his clothes. He flashed a wicked smile, his hand descending from her stomach towards her __lower regions. He wanted to touch her; he wanted to taste her._

_The goose bumps followed where his fingers had been as he inched ever closer to that one spot he was dying to touch…_

Erik awoke with a start, his breathing heavy. The dream had been so vivid, so wild. He glanced down at his bare chest which was dripping with sweat and out of the corner of his eye he noticed a visible erection in his trousers. He gripped the arms of the chair he was seated in, his fingernails digging into the wood; the anger which coursed through his veins at the thought of being back in his isolated reality was completely unbearable.

But it had felt so real; he could taste her skin on his lips, feel the warmth of her breath. He could still see as clear as day the curves of her stunning body, the goose bumps rising on her skin. How could his mind betray him in such a way?

Erik cursed and roughly clawed at his bare chest. Deep red marks appeared instantly on his delicate pale skin among the scars which already rested there. The short bursts of pain he felt were not enough to quench his anger.

It was one thing to know that he had always longed for Christine, but he had now had the realisation that Christine was no longer a girl in his eyes; she was now a woman, and he wanted her more than ever.

* * *

**A/N: Phwoar! That was hot. Sorry for any confusion with the jumps in this chapter, I wanted to get to the main time of Phantom to really set this story in motion. Hope you like. Please review, I love reading them.  
**


	6. Chapter Six

_**A/N: Been a long one this week, finally spat out a chapter for you all! This is where the story starts to pick up the pace a little. I hope you like it.**_

_**Disclaimer: There are a lot of references from the Phantom of the Opera Musicial in this chapter, I do not own any of the lyrics/dialogue taken from there. The characters and names are owned by Monsieur Leroux himself.**_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Christine awoke with a smile on her face as she found the latest in a long line of single red roses lying on her pillow beside her. Ever since her eighteenth birthday she had woken up to this charming gesture every morning from her Angel. When questioned he merely told her that she was a stunning creature who deserved no less than her heart's desire each and every day.

Christine had grown into a marvellous woman with such beauty that she chose to hide away at most public functions at the Opera Populaire. Her hair was still as sleek and curly as it had been since she was little and wove down to her tiny waist; her skin was like porcelain, precious and smooth, she had a small yet curvaceous figure which was only accentuated by the dresses and corsets she wore. The attention she received from various suitors made many of the other girls green with jealousy and yet, she didn't enjoy it. She was just a ballet girl, just an extra in the chorus; their attention was clearly for her looks alone.

Christine knew that deep down no matter how much interest others showed in her, she couldn't resist her feelings for the one who had always cared, the one who was always there.

"_Angel?" She had said one day._

"_Yes, my child." His voice was gentle, washing over her like a wave of warm air._

"_Do you know what I wish?" Christine blushed a little, hiding her face._

"_I know of many things, child, but please, enlighten me." Erik smiled gently as he watched his beautiful flower. The steady rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed made him hot under the collar._

"_I wish…" she gulped, her mouth dry, "I wish that you were real." _

_Erik froze, his eyes fixed on Christine for any sign of movement. Did he just hear her correctly? His hand absent mindedly travelled up to his mask, feeling the perfect curves of the porcelain tracing the lines of his horrid face beneath. He sighed. If she knew the truth she wouldn't wish such a thing; she was only feeling for the Angel he had created for her, not for the truth underneath._

"_My dear, you should be grateful for what you have." Erik's voice leaked regret._

_Christine raised her head and stared at the ceiling, tears gathering in her eyes at his avoidance of her wishes. "I am grateful, Angel. It's just…" She hesitated again, wondering how far she could push the conversation before he grew angry. "If you were real…"_

"_If I wasn't real, child, I wouldn't be talking to you like I am now."_

_Christine wiped the tears from her eyes in haste, "Will you stop calling me a child!" _

_Erik glared, his eyes fixated on her in wonder as she once again set those sparks of inspiration through his veins with her emotions. She was so beautiful when she shook with anger, so beautiful in everything she did._

"_What would you have me call you?" His voice boomed._

"_I am not a child anymore, Angel, and I deserve to have you call me by my name!" Christine stamped her foot in protest, her words becoming less threatening by the minute. "We have known each other now for too long to have such informalities in our conversations!"_

Christine knew now that she loved her Angel, that her heart belonged to a voice that whispered into her ear every day; a bodiless voice which would prove to anyone that she was clearly insane. And yet, the roses she kept receiving gave her reason to think that there was more than meets the eye when it came to her Angel.

In her dreams she imagined herself in the Angel of Music's arms; his body keeping her warm at night, his breath sending tingles down her spine, his lips on her skin making her blush… But these dreams were full of unexplained questions which turned them into nightmares; the Angel to whom she clung had no face or voice, he was just a soulless body holding her tight.

Christine shook the memories from her mind and tried to focus on her tasks for the day. The Opera Populaire were putting on a new production of _Hannibal, _to which Christine yet again had a part in the chorus. With the opening night only a few hours away the day's rehearsals would prove to be long and stressful, with the finishing touches being put into place.

Much to Monsieur Reyer's dislike, the rehearsals were interrupted in the early afternoon by Monsieur Lefèvre and two gentlemen new to the Opera Populaire. The chorus girls became intrigued hardly caring for the rude interruption of their practice; to them theirs were two new faces to impress and gain attention from.

"As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours about my imminent retirement…" Monsieur Lefèvre's voice echoed across the stage, turning the heads of many of the company who had originally not cared for his words, "I can now tell you that these were all true, and it is now my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire; Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles Andre!"

There was a small applause across the stage from the members of the company who actually cared for the news. Christine and Meg gossiped merrily at the back of the stage feeling pleased to have the time to speak together. The idea of their much loved Manager leaving the Opera House was a huge change of event for them, having known him since they were little girls.

"Signora! I have experienced all of your greatest roles!" The sound of the new manager's grovelling to the _prima donna_ made many of the company roll their eyes; yet again La Carlotta accepted all of the praise and compliments for her minor contributions. "I wonder, Signora, if you might honour us with a private rendition?"

La Carlotta began the first few lines of her character's aria from the new production. Her mezzo-soprano voice rang through the theatre hitting the back walls with such a force which was unnecessary for such a sweet piece. The music was drowned out by her volume, and her pitch went from high to low in such an instant that she shocked many of the listeners.

It was in that instant that a loud fumbling could be heard overhead of the stage. Many of the chorus girls looked up and screamed, running across the stage to the wings either side just as one of the backdrops tumbled on top of La Carlotta mid song. There came a booming, ghostly laugh coursing throughout the auditorium making many of the company shiver in fright.

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" Meg cried; her horror at first hand experience was mixed with huge excitement.

"I have never known such _insolence_!" shouted Monsieur Firmin at Meg in a rage.

Monsieur Andre tried to calm Carlotta as she brought herself back to her feet, brushing dust from her skirts, "These things do happen!" he said. Silence rang throughout the auditorium; the company drawing in bated breaths as they braced their ears for La Carlotta's most recent predicted strop.

"_These things do happen?" _La Carlotta's face turned red with rage, making her face look more like a giant tomato with stage makeup, "You see these things _do happen_ all the time! For the past _three years_ these things do happen!" she turned on the spot to address her new manager's directly, "Until you stop these things from happening, this _thing_ does not happen!" her chubby hands flew to her throat; she stormed from the stage and into the wings, away from the crowd with her lover bringing up the rear, calling to her with Spanish pleas.

"Who is the understudy for the role?!"

"There is no understudy, Monsieur, the production is new!" cried Monsieur Reyer, his arms flying through the air in exasperation.

Meg wrenched herself away from Christine's grasp and ran through the crowd of chorus girls now taking up their original places on the stage before the backdrop fell, "Christine Daae could sing it, Monsieur!" She called. Christine's mouth fell open, her cheeks turning red under the eyes of the company which were now fixated on her. "She has been taking lessons from a _great_ teacher!" Meg's eyes caught Christine's as she grinned in encouragement.

"Ah, from whom?" questioned Monsieur Andre.

Christine walked forward slightly, her voice caught in her throat, "I… I don't know, Monsieur."

"Daae? That's a curious name; any relation to the Violinist?" Monsieur Andre's eyes scrutinised her, taking in her timid form.

Christine raised her head, her voice strengthening at the talk of her father, "My Father, Monsieur."

"Let her sing for you, Monsieur." piped up Madam Giry, her dark eyes glittering under the stage lights, "She has been well taught."

"Very well! From the beginning of the aria then, Mademoiselle."

Meg ran over to Christine's side and took her hands, her eyes were gentle as she consoled her friend, "Christine, you will be great! Just sing."

Christine's eyes grew wide with shock. Just sing? That would be very well if she had ever sung in front of a crowd _on her own_ before. Her heartbeat began to jump to her throat making it difficult for her voice to be heard. As the opening chords rang through the auditorium the crowd around her dispersed, leaving her standing alone in the centre of the stage. Christine shook silently the words escaping her mouth in a quiet voice which she hardly recognised as her own.

"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves."

Monsieur Firmin's words sent waves of shame through Christine's stomach. What would her Angel and father think of her? If they were watching right now, they would see that all of their hard work and the passion they had put in to make her a star had been wasted. This was her dream; to have everyone listening to her voice. This was her chance to prove herself.

Christine closed her eyes and began to let the music wash through her. She took a deep breath as she steadied herself.

_**On that day, that not so distant day,  
when you were far away and free.  
If you ever find a moment  
spare a thought for me.  
**_

* * *

The moments since seemed to blur into one lump in Christine's mind; she found herself seated in what was Carlotta's dressing room, her heart starting to revert back to a steady pace after the rush of adrenaline. The crowd's applause still rung in her ears making the silence of her dressing room feel crowded. She had entered the room in high spirits, her mind filled with the images of awestruck faces in the audience, the feeling of triumph pulsing through her veins. On the dressing table lay a single red rose draped in a black silk ribbon, her customary gift from her proud guardian.

"Brava… Brava… Bravissimo!" Erik cooed, watching his Angel as she stroked his rose with a delicate finger.

She closed her eyes and smiled, holding the rose close to her heart. Her Angel's voice was filled with compassion and delight lifting her even higher in happiness.

"Christine!"

She snapped her eyes open at once as Meg's excited voice filled the room. She ran over to Christine's side, nearly jumping up and down at her friend's new found success. "You were _amazing, _simply perfect."

Christine smiled weakly and accepted Meg's brash hug; all of the excitement of the night had made her exhausted mentally as well as physically. Meg's voice was like a distant hum as she gossiped; "You should have seen their faces, Christine! The girls are all pleased for you but the jealousy is still there…" She stopped and stepped in front of Christine's eye line, grabbing her attention, "Christine?"

"Sorry, Meg, it's just been an eventful day." She grabbed Meg's hands and gave them a gentle squeeze.

Meg was not convinced, "I watched your face from the shadows, and it was distant through all of the applause just like it is now. Are you sure you are well, Christine?"

Christine opened her mouth to respond but found herself interrupted by a stern rapping of knuckles at the door.

"Christine Daae! Where is your red scarf?"

Christine turned her eyes taking in the sight of a young man before her. Meg's hand tightened suddenly as she smiled insanely. The new patron, the Vicomte de Changy, was an incredibly handsome gentleman, with sandy blond hair and sky blue eyes; his features seemed as though they had been carved by the angels and his voice, although not a catch on her Angel's, was deep and pleasant.

"Oh, I do apologise. I thought you were alone, where are my manners?" He smiled sweetly and began to bow low. Meg giggled.

"Raoul?" Christine whispered.

"Christine! Ah, you do remember? I was afraid you had forgotten me!" He walked forward and took Christine's free hand, planting a gentle kiss on her knuckles. From behind his back he brought forward a single red rose, making Christine blush at the gesture. She thought of the rose from her Angel, which was now back lying on top of the dressing table; surely accepting such a gift from an old friend wouldn't be so bad? Taking the flower carefully, she placed it close to her nose, taking in its gentle scent.

"Nonsense! Meg, this is Raoul; we were childhood friends back when father and I used to travel to different towns." Christine smiled sweetly, taking in Raoul's adult form. She could remember like it was yesterday; the way they used to swap stories and riddles and have picnics in the attic. Meg curtsied and giggled once more.

"How is Monsieur Daae?" Raoul asked with a beaming smile.

Christine gave a sharp intake of breath and lowered her head. "Father is dead, Raoul."

Raoul's smile faltered, "Ah, I am sorry for your loss, Christine. But I am sure he would have been proud of your performance this evening; you were marvellous after all." Christine smiled once more knowing deep down in her heart that she had made him proud.

"I wonder, Mademoiselle, if you might accompany me to dinner?" Raoul bowed once more, his manners getting the better of him.

Christine looked back at the rose lying on her dressing table and thought of the longing she felt inside to converse with her Angel; she had been hoping to speak to him about their conversation of a few days back for her mind felt conflicted. She needed his advice, and longed for his voice.

Meg nudged Christine during the silence bringing her sharply back into reality, "She would love to." she said.

Raoul clapped his hands together and smiled in delight, "Splendid! You must change, and I must get my hat. Two minutes, Little Lotte!" He chuckled as he departed from the room, leaving Christine and Meg in silence.

Meg's mouth was wide open in awe of the Opera House's new patron, "Christine…"

Christine raised her hand to interrupt, "I know what you are thinking, Meg, and the answer is no." She watched as her friend crossed her arms and pouted as if in a strop. "We were childhood friends, nothing more." She flittered about the room, finding herself a decent outfit for her upcoming meal; she came across a dark green, low neck lined dress with puffed sleeves which made the porcelain shade of her skin stand out nicely. She pulled herself into the dress quickly and brushed through her curls to give herself more of a natural look after all of the stage makeup. She smiled gently as she observed herself in the long floor length mirror across the room.

From behind the mirror, Erik watched his Angel's breathtaking form prepare herself for her dinner. He felt the annoyance course through him as Meg had so willingly accepted this _Viscomte's_ dinner proposal without Christine's consent; but even more annoyance that she was willing to accept herself! His heart skipped beats as she stared unknowingly straight into his eyes; if she only knew he was but an arm length away, if she only knew that her Angel of Music _was_ real, and was a man.

He placed his hand up against the mirror, stroking the surface lightly. He sighed, feelings of anger, pain and longing coursing through him. As he turned to leave to spare himself more heartache at his own expense, he overheard Meg's fleeting farewell to her friend spread hope through his body once more.

"It is a shame, Christine; he is handsome but your heart will always belong to your Angel of Music."

* * *

_**A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review, I would love to hear your feedback and ideas to help move mine along.**_


	7. Chapter Seven

_**A/N: Sorry it has taken so long to get this chapter to you. Had a bit of writer's block along with a very busy couple of weeks. I hope you enjoy, although this is another filler chapter.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Erik.**_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Erik watched through glazed eyes as the dressing room behind the glass in which he stared became empty and silent. He played the young Giry's words over in his mind, teasing himself with the absurd notion of Christine falling for him.

_Your heart will always belong to your Angel of Music_ she had said. Christine was falling in love with the lie he had fed to her all of these years to serve his sick longings of any sort of relationship with another; but he couldn't stop; he couldn't leave her, not after so long. He had gotten himself in far too deep with his hideous act of dishonesty, fooling such an innocent being into believing the farfetched stories her late father told her. But it wasn't just the idea of her heart breaking should she ever find out the truth which made him sick to his stomach; the desire he felt on a constant daily basis was beginning to feel unbearable. Erik knew when enough was enough, but he didn't know if he was able to make the change.

And now his love had been snatched away by a _boy_. Erik could sense that no matter how much Christine belonged to her Angel, to _him_, it wouldn't take long for this _boy_ to work his way into her mind and heart and eventually steal her away from his grasp. He was after all handsome; there was no denying it, so he already had more points on his pro list than Erik by far.

Erik fingered the catch on the glass in front of him, unlocking the barrier between his hiding place and his loves dressing room. The light from the many candles spaced around the room made his eyes flicker as they adjusted and craved the darkness once more. His long fingers glided over the smooth surface of a mahogany dressing table in the middle of the room, the ghostly shade of his skin standing out too vividly against the darkness of the wood. Erik moved with such gentleness, quite unlike his normal movements of silent but controlled speed.

He traced the curves of the bottles of perfume placed on the counter top; he wound small circles with one finger into the compressed powder of Christine's makeup; he began to wonder why she even bothered with such things; her skin was like fresh milk, smooth and perfect, not a mark of imperfection had ever reached her anywhere on her precious little body – not that he had seen any more than he should or _could_ have. Erik was always the gentleman even when he inwardly fought with himself to not be. The improper part of his mind told him frequently that Christine wouldn't ever know what he had seen from his hiding places, or what his dreams had brought him every night since she turned eighteen.

At the edge of the dresser he came across her hairbrush; Erik picked it up and brought it close to his eyes, examining the way the loose strands in mixtures of chestnut and hints of red, seemed to sparkle in the light. Such small details made his heart ache in longing. He had watched her beautiful curls bounce as she walked and dreamed of running his cold fingers through their warmth.

His tired eyes drifted over to the lonely rose resting in front of the table's mirror. Erik sat down on the small stool as he reached out trembling fingers to the delicate flower. His token of gratitude for her faithfulness and a symbol of his love had been tossed aside and forgotten as she accepted someone else's gifts.

"She's belongs to_ me!_" He growled. His voice reverberated off of the walls of the tunnel to his left, sending angry echoes down the slope and into the darkness. Erik lips contorted into a snarl as he growled loudly, the animal within him escaping in a violent rage. The flower in his hand crumpled in his grip, thorns embedding deep in his palm with trickles of blood dripping onto the carpet. Erik threw the flower to the ground along with his mask. He stared into the mirror in front of him, inspecting the sight of his exposed deformity.

It truly was horrid; his flesh was marred with sections literally falling off. Each day Erik would have the daunting task of removing the flesh which tried in vain to heal the infected areas; new skin would grow but die within the same day, making his face look freshly scarred after all of these years. The excessive wear of his mask made the skin beneath damp with sweat which didn't help fight the infection beneath for it never saw the light or had the fresh air to work at the wound. Part of the skin on his cheek was ever so sore that it was red with inflammation, but even he didn't dare to look at his own face. The mask protected him from the horror underneath, and made him feel worthy of the clothes he wore and the gentlemanly manners he possessed.

Another low growl erupted from deep within Erik's chest as his anger took over. He rose quickly in one of his lithe movements grabbing the stool from beneath him and throwing it into the mirror of the dressing table. The bottles of perfume smashed upon impact with the stools legs; the mahogany table was covered in pieces of shattered glass, cutting deep scratches into the varnished surface and ruining the fine piece of furniture.

The scene around him looked like a bomb had hit it. Erik heaved deep breaths, steadying himself before realising completely what he had done. He slowly walked forward, shards of what was the mirror cracking underneath his polished shoes. Erik lent down and picked up his mask, placing it back over his deformity once more. He hung his head, ashamed of what his resentment had caused.

"Christine…" he whispered, "No…"

And he was off. With a flick of his cloak he departed from the dressing room and back into the dark tunnel. He slammed the mirror back on its latch, forcing him into complete darkness. For a brief moment he was disoriented as his eyes adjusted, but recovered quickly. He travelled at a brisk pace passing through twisting paths, cold catacombs and five levels of cellar beneath the opera house.

Erik kicked open the door of this home, much like that first night many years ago. He removed his cloak and jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt once again before setting himself before the piano in his study. His fingers glided across the keys in a simple melody and words formed instantly on his lips.

_**Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime  
Lead me, save me from my solitude**_

_**Say you want me, with you here beside you…**_

As he sat there singing his heartbreaking plea, warm tears filled his eyes and blurred his vision. And as much as Erik would never admit it, he cried that night over the wishes he had made upon many stars which would never come true.


	8. Chapter Eight

_**A/N: Hello everyone! I just wanted to take a moment to say that I have started to write other Phanfics (mainly oneshots). If you like my writing please, do not by shy and mooch on over to my other work and let me know what you think! You can find them easier through my profile. Thanks!**_

_**Disclaimer: Phantom is not mine.**_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**_  
_

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daae, a pleasure as always."

Monsieur Andre's voice floated across the room from behind his desk in the Manager's study. His partner, Monsieur Firmin, was out of the country for _personal _reasons. Many of the girls in the Corps du ballet questioned this and spread various rumours that he was having an affair with a young daughter of a Paris nobleman after having seen them have quite an _intense_ meeting at the _Hannibal_ debut after party. They had been introduced in what seemed to be an innocent matter, until the quite forward touching occurred after a few glasses of champagne.

Christine smiled sweetly and walked in through the door of the Manager's office, taking in its interior. She had only been in this room once before many years ago when she first came to the Opera Populaire. Not much had changed after so long; the interior was still of a deep chestnut colour, heavily varnished so every surface was clear enough to see your own reflection. Posters from previous Opera's performed at the Populaire lined the walls of the office, some framed, others on rollers like scrolls; a rather inviting looking arm chair sat in the corner of the room beside couple of small bookcases filled with a variety of authors.

She proceeded towards the farthest part of the room and sat down in a small chair directly opposite her manager. Monsieur Andre shuffled the papers on his desk to make the appearance seem a tad tidier; Christine noted that this would only be possible if he were to have a proper spring clean through the overall junk; there were ink pots and quills, parchment, newspapers and time sheet charts, cups of coffee and plates of biscuits with crumbs everywhere. It appeared that Monsieur Andre had been incredibly busy with a double workload since his partner's departure.

"You wanted to see me, Monsieur?" Christine said. She had awoken that morning in somewhat high spirits to be given a message from Madam Giry stating that she was wanted at ten o'clock sharp in the Manager's office. Christine had wondered what could have possibly warranted such a request and inwardly worried that she had done something to get her into trouble. Part of her wondered if this had anything to do with the state in which she found her dressing room a couple of weeks previously, the culprit had still not been found.

"Yes… Yes. Please, take a seat." He waved an airy arm, so engrossed in clearing his desk top that he hadn't realised that she was already seated.

Monsieur Andre huffed and turned towards Christine. He took in her gentle appearance and her innocent facial expression and almost forgot the reason he had called her to his office. He cleared his throat and began hunting around in the draws of his desk. "Ahem… Yes. Mademoiselle Daae, the reason I called you here today is… Oh, where did I put those…?"

His voice trailed off as he shuffled through various papers once more. Christine's eyes widened at the amount of mess her manager's developed. They had always been successful businessmen but apparently had a severe organisational problem.

"Ah! Here we are!"

In his hands he held a wad of ivory envelopes outlined in the deepest black. Christine's eyebrows creased together in confusion as she stared at the envelopes

"Now I know this is completely barbaric and even my colleague, Richard, did not believe in any of this nonsense!" He flicked the corners of the bundle; there must have been at least ten, if not fifteen, letters in his hands, "However, recent events in this place have, shall we say, _enlightened_ us to act upon these demands."

"I don't quite understand, Monsieur…" Christine said slowly.

Andre stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of Christine. He handed her the envelopes and stared at her with a guarded expression, no doubt bracing himself for her reaction. She accepted the letters with a slow hand, still confused as to what exactly was going on.

Christine examined the envelopes first; there were no addressee's written on the front making it seem even more mysterious. She turned the first one over and took in the sight of the broken seal; there was no crest or coat of arms which she normally saw, instead there was a shape of a black skull in the same shade as the thick outline on the envelope's edges. It was quite frightening and yet still quite mesmerising to look at; with trembling fingers Christine opened the first letter and pulled out the thick parchment inside.

'_Gentlemen,' _it read in an elegant script.

'_I trust your predecessor, Monsieur Lefèvre, explained about the role I play in this Opera House. Therefore I must stress the importance of your obedience in the above matter; I shall not relinquish my title to suit your tastes._

_I will be calling upon you on frequent opportunities to fulfil my demands and I must warn you that they will be extensive; however, men of your status should have no trouble in dealing with them. _

_Just so we are clear, you will have our company perform each and any Opera or Ballet I see fit as my judgement is, and always will be, in the best interest for our performers, our patrons and of course, the Populaire's popularity. This is in exchange for the twenty thousand francs per month which you shall deliver._

_If you need any further assistance, all you have to do is call for me and I shall forever be at your service._

_Your obedient servant,_

_O.G'_

Christine stared at the initials at the bottom of the page. "_Opera Ghost?"_ she whispered.

Monsieur Andre nodded sharply. "Of course we dismissed the letter as some ridiculous trick," he sniffed and moved back to his chair behind the desk. He lent forward, his head in his hands and examined Christine over the top of his spectacles, "however, things escalated and we were forced to obey."

Christine flicked through some more of the letters leading up to the present day; it started with somewhat polite reminders which soon turned to angry threats and insane requests. "I am sorry, Monsieur, but what has this to do with me?"

Andre motioned to the letters in her hand. She handed them back with haste and waited for an answer to her question. She watched as he flicked through each one, skimming the words until he came across one letter in particular. "Ah," he exclaimed, "yes, here we are." He cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

"_Gentlemen,_

_As you are aware I have been pleased as of late with your choice to obey my commands. You should therefore have no trouble with my next one:_

_When Monsieur Lefèvre brought the Spanish soprano into my Opera House I was most displeased, but since she has chosen to walk out from our company's production of _Hannibal_ we have come across a more superior replacement. I trust that you agree with me when I say that Mademoiselle Daae is a delight to have in the spotlight on our stage and I shall be best pleased if she continues to grace us all with her presence in _all _leading roles from now on._

_In the new production of _Il Muto,_ which I believe we shall begin to rehearse in a few weeks, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the pageboy, and put Christine in the role of Countess. She possesses the charm and appeal in which that character deserves, whereas the role of the pageboy is silent – I guess you can say that my casting here has been, in a word: _ideal.

_As always, Gentlemen, if you require anything please do not hesitate to call for me._

_Your friend,_

_O.G'_

Christine's heart beat franticly inside her chest and she relayed the words over and over in her head. Of all of the ways to get a part in the latest Opera's and to kick start her career she did not believe that it would be in the result of _black mail_? She couldn't decide whether or not to feel insulted or flattered. She stayed silent, unsure as to what to say or think.

"Mademoiselle Daae, you are given a choice in this, of course."

Christine nodded. This Phantom, a man that only people had heard rumours of, had specifically asked for her. It had been said, that underneath all of the genius he had a particular soft spot for the fine arts, especially Opera. So to have gained his favour after a debut role strangely meant a considerable amount to Christine.

"I would be delighted." Christine muttered.

"Very well, Mademoiselle. You may leave."

* * *

Christine was lost in thought all the way back to her dormitory; she wondered if she would ever get the pleasure of meeting her admirer to thank him for the opportunity, although she did cower at the thought; it was said he was a madman! However the overall opportunity gave her more worries; she not only had to perform for her audience, she now had to make her Angel and her invisible benefactor proud.

Christine stopped outside her dormitory with her hand on the door knob and leaned her head against the door, "I have heard that you are everywhere and I do wonder if you can hear me." She muttered. Christine inwardly felt ridiculous talking to thin air. "I just want to say… Thank you."

She disappeared into her room to prepare herself to join the rest of the ballet girls. She pushed the thought of the meeting, the notes and the Opera Ghost to the back of her mind but her words did not fall on deaf ears.


	9. Chapter Nine

_**A.N: Hello! I am alive once more! So sorry for such a long break, but I shall be making up for it now with this and another chapter in a couple of days. I have been working hard as to not disappoint!**_

_**Please read and review **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own much.**_

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**Chapter Nine**

"This is an outrage!"

La Carlotta's fat fist collided sharply with the table making her cup of tea spill over onto the surface of the polished wood. Her managers had been taken aback by her abrupt outburst as they hesitatingly informed her of her part in the new Opera, _Il Muto_.

"Signora, please, our hands are tied!" Monsieur Firmin tried.

"Christine Daae doesn't have the voice!" Carlotta stamped her foot like a spoilt child.

"She did do exceedingly well in our production of _Hannibal_…" came Monsieur Andre's voice from the other side of the room. Both his colleague and the _prima_ _donna_ shot him a look of warning, silencing him instantly. A harsh wailing started to erupt from Carlotta's mouth as she sank into the armchair in the corner of the study and hid her huge head in her hands.

Monsieur Firmin poured the _prima donna _some more tea before consoling her, "Surely there is a way we could make this work, Signora, and we just need some time to work out the kinks in our setbacks."

"That is not good enough!" Carlotta shrieked.

Silence rang through the office, except for an almost inaudible tutting. Carlotta's ears pricked up like dogs at once, her angry fat face staring in Andre's direction. His fingers were absentmindedly scratching at his chin giving him a distracted air. He glanced over in Carlotta's direction, catching the eyes of his colleague behind her who was waving his arms in the air to catch his attention, warning him to say nothing.

Carlotta's eyebrows rose sharply, "Is there a problem, Monsieur Andre?" she hissed.

Andre lowered his hand from his chin and crossed his arms across his thin frame. Firmin's actions behind the _prima donna_ had not gone unnoticed, yet he chose to ignore them, "Not at all, Signora." He stared her straight in the face as he slowly voiced his thoughts, "I was just noting your immaturity in this situation."

Carlotta's expression contorted; she looked as though she had been struck sharply across the face.

"Excuse me!" She stuttered.

"If you think that you can just walk in and out of our Opera House and think your place would still remain then I am afraid that you are very much mistaken." He managed to keep his voice calm and collected while his employee shook with suppressed rage. He moved quickly to the other side of the desk and began to shuffle papers, keeping himself looking busy as he chose to ignore her rising anger. He used the desk as a barrier between himself and Carlotta to avoid any form of attack, "You are still an employee here, Signora. Mademoiselle Daae was within her rights to take your place in our production of _Hannibal_; therefore she also has a perfect right to take the lead role in _Il Muto_ and any other Opera we perform in the future."

Carlotta's voice became stuck in her throat making Andre's speech come easier than he had anticipated, "I do believe that is the end of our discussion, Signora. Good day to you."

The _prima donna_, still gobsmacked by the hard hitting words of her manager, continued to stare at his thin form for a few moments longer. She watched as he settled into the chair behind the long desk and completely ignored her standing before him. She could feel the rejection inside of her building as she turned to Monsieur Firmin to find him looking away from her also.

Carlotta took this as her cue to exit as quickly as possible with whatever was left of her dignity. She donned her fur coat and stormed from the room without a further look at either of her manager's, slamming the door with so much force that the paintings on the walls rattled.

Andre spoke first, "Well, I think that went rather well, don't you?" he said with a small smile.

Monsieur Firmin sighed; "If this continues, we will be ruined, Gilles."

* * *

_**Poor fool he makes me laugh, ha-ahha-ahha**_

"Mademoiselle Daae, you are almost there, just your '_ah ha_'s are a little off; once again, if you please."

Christine slumped her shoulders in exasperation; they had been working on the scene for the past hour. In previous rehearsals her voice had been completely flawless but for some reason she just couldn't concentrate this time. Her mind was elsewhere and unfortunately she was having a hard time hiding it. It had been so much easier when she was _just_ a chorus girl, sitting at the back of the stage while the main actors were being told to repeat their part over and over.

This feeling was entirely different; Christine had never thought that she would be the one everyone else would be waiting on. She glanced around briefly at the surrounding cast and saw their looks of boredom etched plainly into their features. She cleared her throat and nodded towards Monsieur Reyer signalling that she was ready to take it one more time.

"You should have the silent part, little _toad_!"

Carlotta's voice came cutting through the silence like a double edged knife laced in acid. She hadn't tried to hide her contempt for one second. Christine turned and stared into the eyes of a hunter as the mutterings and whispering began from the wings and back of the stage. She opened her mouth to respond but was surprised to be interrupted.

"A toad, madam?"

Every present member of the company fell silent at once, all petrified from the disembodied voice which had nearly made them all jump out of their skins. It had crept through the auditorium and reached everyone's ears as if it were being spoken directly to each one of them. Christine shivered. She had never before heard such anger except for once, long ago when she had argued with her Angel over the way he had treated her; his voice had twisted into such a rage with a slight undertone of pain. This voice which had ripped through the air like the crack of a whip had shocked her and brought back memories she did not care to relive.

"Angel…" Christine whispered.

The voice continued in a matter-of-fact tone; "Perhaps it is _you_ who are the toad."

Many of the company with had to stifle their laughter; Christine watched as Carlotta's face grew redder with every second, the embarrassment proving too much for her to bare. The laughter through the auditorium grew louder, until Christine felt as though she was surrounded by madness. Without a further glance to anyone, she rose and ran from the room. She couldn't help but feel scared of that disembodied voice tearing through the air and finding her. She kept her mind set entirely on returning to the safe security of her dressing room where she could sink into the silence behind a locked door where no one could harm her.

"Christine… _Christine?"_

"Angel?" She whispered, "Is that you?"

"Yes, Christine, of course it is me. Do you not recognise my voice?" The voice questioned.

"I'm sorry, I thought it was _him_, Angel. I just had to leave." Christine had locked herself in her dressing room and was seated at the dressing table. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, which had finally been replaced.

"Of whom do you speak, child?" her Angel asked.

Christine hesitated before whispering her words cautiously, "The Opera Ghost..."

The room fell silent; Erik watched Christine like he always had from a distance. He watched her wide eyes glisten in the sunlight as it streamed into the dressing room, how they sparkled even when she stared off into the distance, trapped in some distant thought. Her face was blank, void of any emotion which made it difficult for him to read her true feelings about this Phantom, about his true disguise.

He licked his dried lips as he anxiously waited for her to continue, "People say he is insane, Angel, and he has favoured my voice. What if it's one of his cruel tricks?"

"Insane?!" Erik scoffed, "I highly doubt that is it insanity, my dear, shall we say more _brilliance_?" Erik muttered, his voice straining under rising agitation.

There was a slight hesitation in Christine's response, "Angel, I do believe there is something you may be hiding from me." A small smile played about her full lips making dimples appear in her cheeks. Erik's heart beat at an insane rate as her words cut him deep; _insane_, _cruel trick_. The Opera House was his passion in life and even under the persona of _Le Fantome _he had never done anything so unpleasant.

Indeed, there had been times where he had come so close to finding once again the power behind his past. He had once been the master of his most favoured weapon long ago in Persia; the Punjab Lasso. But his time below in the catacombs of the Opera House and watching over Christine had made his soft and reliant on the lies he fed to his student. It had been many years since he had even let the lasso slide from his sleeve into his cold hands and around the throat of a susceptible victim, and even he couldn't deny that he missed the sound of a snapping neck.

But how could Christine suspect so easily?

"And just what are you insinuating?" he snapped, his voice bouncing harshly off the walls. Christine's smiled wiped from her face at once.

"I didn't mean…"

A sharp rapping of knuckles on the door made Christine stop mid-sentence. She glanced nervously around the room as though half unsure if stopping their conversation was the best idea and making sure her Angel was securely hidden before her visitor entered.

She breathed deeply and scurried to the door; the room around her was silent as the grave making her unsure whether or not her Angel was still present. The strong connection between them made her able to recognise his aura around her; however this seemed to falter when his bad moods took over.

"Raoul?" Christine gasped.

"Good afternoon, Christine. I wonder, is this a bad time?" Raoul demeanour became slightly cautious as he took in Christine's exasperated greeting.

"Oh, no, of course not. Please, come in." She chanted, stepping backwards and returning to her seat at the dressing table. She took in Raoul's ever smart appearance as he closed the door carefully; his suit was of the deepest black like it had only recently been bought, each piece of fabric pressed in the most elegant fashion. Once he had removed his top hat she noticed his very fine sandy hair, slicked back out of his eyes; it had grown a considerable amount since he had last been standing before her in her dressing room, only a month or so ago. His appearance looked almost _too_ perfect for her liking.

He cleared his throat, "As you may know there is a ball coming up in a few weeks…" He eyed Christine cautiously and fingered the edges of his top hat. "And I was wondering if you might accompany me that night." His invitation left his lips in a more forward way than he had intended.

Christine offered him a sweet but nervous smile. She had heard the ballet girls getting excited about the upcoming ball but hadn't thought twice about it herself. As the new leading lady it was like a special duty to attend such an event to promote the Opera Populaire, but her mind had been conflicted with so many things as of late that she had completely forgotten.

"Of course, Christine, if you already have a prior arrangement I will understand entirely…" Raoul's voice flittered on.

Christine lifted her hand to silence his nattering and interject at once, "I am sorry, Raoul. If truth be told I had no idea how close the event was." She giggled nervously, "But I would be delighted to attend the ball with our Patron!"

Raoul could hardly contain his enthusiasm; his smile creased at the corners of his eyes showing a rather older look to his features; Christine could see his once youthful face was beginning to look tired and worn. "Ah, superb! It's a Masquerade, don't you know!" His tired eyes sparkled.

Christine gasped at the news, "Oh, Raoul, I had no idea! It will be just like the games we played as children!" She rose from her chair and crossed the room to his side, taking one of his hands in hers. She looked into his sky blue eyes which twinkled in remembrance, "Do you recall the song?" Christine whispered.

Raoul nodded, "How could I forget?"

Christine gave him a childish grin and pulled away to dance around the room; she was light on her feet, keeping the moves simple and graceful. Her voice had the same light air;

_**Masquerade! Paper faces on parade.  
Hide your face so the world will never find you!**_

Raoul chuckled and moved himself to Christine's side, taking her hands once again in his. She had ceased dancing and watched as he stared into her eyes, taking in the gentle sparkle in their chocolate depths. He closed the short distance between them and pulled her into a gentle embrace which he thought was long overdue after so many years. Christine laid her head of insane curls on his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart beneath her left ear. She blushed, thinking once more of their childhood and the many times he had held her like this.

And although she would never admit it, Christine remembered the many times she had looked at Raoul in a way a betrothed woman would her future husband. She had a childhood crush which grew every time he picked her up when she fell, or let her know everything would be all right when her father was angry. However, this crush dissipated over time with Raoul's absence and Christine's mourning over the best male figure in her life, and now that Raoul had returned she couldn't say that her feelings were still the same.

They stood trapped in their embrace for some time. Erik was still ever present, doing what he always did best; watching. But at the sight of Christine and the boy together, touching each other, _feeling _each other, he had to turn away and fight the jealousy building in the pit of his stomach. The pain of their closeness made him ache from the inside out. The dreams in which he was the one standing before her, seeing her beauty radiate before his very eyes; where she was speaking not just to him or to his face but to his very soul, seemed like a distant and impossible fantasy. He had to stop any intrusion of this _fop_ between himself and _his_ Christine, and he knew that the Opera Populaire's upcoming Masquerade was a perfect time to do so.

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_**A.N: Be prepared readers, another chapter on the way!**_


	10. Chapter Ten

_**A/N: And here we are again. I hope this chapter does me justice.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own.**_

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

The Masquerade; a night of dancing, spectacular costumes and a variety of expensive alcohol imported from different countries. The ballroom within the Opera Populaire had been decorated so elaborately, with golden veils across the long walls, white candles standing in silver stands illuminating the dance floor in a gentle orange glow; there were buffet tables full of exotic roasted foods and scrumptious desserts. Next to the spectacular décor was the extraordinary array of costumes, including impressive princes and princesses, knights in shining armour, mythical creatures and gods and goddesses. The manager's had even arranged for the servants to be dressed as black and white clowns as they served trays of refreshments while small sections of the company's orchestra were seated in the west corner of the room near a large marble staircase which led to balconies and corridors towards the auditorium and private boxes.

Christine had kept herself locked in her dressing room with Meg in the hours leading up to the ball to choose the most dazzling outfit which she could guarantee would make an impression when arriving with the Opera Populaire's Patron. She decided to make her entrance down the marble staircase and directly onto the dance floor with Raoul, like a scene from a play. She had chosen a deep magenta coloured, sleeveless dress with an indigo trim around the bust, the skirt flared in a princess style and had a line of delicately embroidered silver stars around the waist; her shoes were of the same silver shade as the stars. She wore her hair down but pinned back behind her ears to keep the insane curls looking more manageable, and to also hold her light pink eye mask in place. Many of the women at the ball had chosen to wear these masks as to not hide their identity completely, but still keep an air of mystery while joining in with the masquerade theme. It was more of the male guests who wore masks covering their faces entirely which resulted in difficulties for the women to find their original partners once the dancing had begun.

As the new _prima donna_ of the Opera Populaire, Christine had been directed by both her manager's and Raoul to meet all of the very important businessmen and their wives upon their arrival, a task which initially bored her, but after an hour or so she found herself meeting some very interesting people.

Raoul had been keeping his hand placed on the small of Christine's back for most of the evening; a comforting feeling which made Christine feel less nervous as she conversed with the guests. He shot her gentle smiles of encouragement every now and then before he stepped in and whisked her away for good.

"I am sorry, but Mademoiselle Daae and I are in need of a glass of wine and some overdue dancing!" Christine stifled her giggles as Raoul led her over to the dance floor, placing one hand around her waist and steering her into a waltz.

"I am proud of you, Christine." He said. "You handled their comments and questions better than I, and I have to do it every day."

Christine grinned and reached towards the tray of a passing waiter, taking a glass of sparkling white wine. She swallowed the glass in one, quite un-lady-like but the whole event had left her feeling very tense; she hoped that the more she consumed, the more at ease she would feel.

Raoul watched her with cautious eyes, "Christine," he reached for the empty glass in her hand and placed it back on the tray of another passing waiter, "Come." He took her hand and escorted her from the dance floor.

He led her into a deserted corridor, his hand becoming hotter and damp with sweat making it all the more difficult to hold onto. Raoul glanced around and stopped suddenly resulting in Christine almost knocking into his back.

"What are we doing here, Raoul?"

He turned slowly, his moisture soaked hand still clutching hers. He gazed into her eyes and offered her a sly but slightly nervous smile. "Christine…" his free hand reached up and played with a strand of her long hair, "I thought it would be better if we were to come somewhere, _quiet_…" The hand which played with her curls now rested gently on the side of her face.

Christine blushed under his touch, "Why?" she whispered.

"So we could be together…" Raoul's eyes examined her innocent gaze, "You really impressed me tonight, Christine. You have the makings of a true Vicomtesse."

Christine's eyebrows creased together at his words. She was so engrossed in her contemplation of his words that she hardly noticed him closing the gap between them. She was brought sharply out of her reverie when he pushed her back against the wall, his lips suddenly on top of hers in a rough embrace. The hand which had held hers moved to her waist grabbing a fistful of her dress and pulling it sharply upwards. A timid gasp left Christine's lips as she froze beneath him; she moaned in displeasure, which Raoul mistook as a sign of enjoyment.

"Raoul…" Christine panted as she struggled.

"Oh, Christine…"

"No, Raoul, get off!" Christine shrieked. She had managed to release her hands which she collided sharply with his chest, forcing him backwards and winding him momentarily. She raised a hand and slapped him sharply across the face for good measure.

"How dare you?" Christine demanded, wiping his spittle from her chin; his initial kiss had proved messy. She looked at his face, seeing the hunger in his eyes mixed with the pain of rejection.

"I-I am sorry, Christine. I just thought we were…"

"Well you thought _wrong_, Raoul!"

She threw him a look of utter disgust as she straightened her outfit after his rude attack. She didn't wait for a response, and turned sharply on her heel to proceed back to the party; Raoul was left standing alone in the darkened corridor, gaping after her.

Christine grabbed another glass of wine from a passing butler as she entered the room, gulping the liquid down in one, and feeling the alcohol leave a warm trail through her chest as it flowed into her bloodstream. The crowd swirled around her as she forced herself across the dance floor and to the other side of the room. She was pushed in various directions by the dancers around her, the sea of different glittering coloured outfits made her vision blur. She staggered from temporary light headedness but managed to arrive, after some confusion, at the buffet table which she gripped tightly, closing her eyes, and bowing her head low to steady herself along with deep breaths.

"You look a little on edge." A voice muttered into her ear.

She turned her head to the direction of the voice, resting her eyes upon its owner; he was tall and thin dressed completely in red, with a mask like a skull covering his features. His hair was of the darkest shade of brown, almost black, and slicked back with not even a strand out of place. He had eyes of the most shocking green shade, like emeralds, shining brightly through the shade of the gaps in his mask. Christine stood before him, staring in awe as she took in his appearance; the costume itself was rather impressive, with a hint of a frightening air mixed with something quite tempting.

Christine bit down on her bottom lip, her voice catching in her throat. He continued, "May I have this dance?" he extended a very white, elegant hand; the paleness of his skin contrasted so vividly with his outfit. She took it, all the while thinking that her night could only get better after its recent turn for the worst.

He led her over to the middle of the dance floor, the crowd dissipating upon their arrival. The man twirled her around and placed his hand firmly around her waist, clutching her to his lean body. Christine's heart began to race at the way he held her, the way he moved her body; his touch was light but still incredibly strong, much unlike Raoul's fumbling embrace. The thought of the way he had just treated her made her cringe with repugnance.

"Is something on your mind, Mademoiselle?" her companion asked. His voice was like the smoothest velvet, making her heart flutter and her knees weak.

Christine pushed all negative thoughts of recent events to the very back of her mind, "Not at all, Monsieur-"

"Please, call me Erik."

Erik. She played his name over in her mind, evidently deciding on how much she liked it. "Such a strong name," Christine mused, "for a strong gentleman." She ran a trembling hand up his forearm gently, trying her hand at a bit of innocent flirting. She blushed, feeling ridiculous in her attempt.

Erik seemed to not notice. He let out a short bark of laughter at her words, but his eyes were too stern behind the mask to meet exclamation. "_What's in a name?_" (Christine noted his intellect for quoting Shakespeare), "I do not think of myself as strong my dear, just that I have strength when necessary." Christine shivered at the strict tone in his voice, "And what of _your_ name? _Mademoiselle Daae_."

Christine smiled slightly, "You may call me Christine," she said curtly, "And if we are talking about name meanings then yes, I do live up to my name."

Erik examined her with a hint of amusement written across his features, this time reaching his eyes; the supple skin around them looked so young and yet the eyes themselves looked as if they were older than their time. He looked her up and down taking in every part of her small frame and then once again allowed his eyes to rest on hers. He smiled and tightened his grip ever so slightly, "God is not always so kind to be worthy of your trust and faith, _Christine_."

The way he placed emphasis on her name made her draw in a jagged breath; her name sounded like sweet honey on his lips. Never before had she heard someone utter her name with such adoration. She spluttered a reply, "Monsieur, you sound as though you are speaking from a harsh experience."

"Erik. Please." His voice had reverted back to its firm demeanour while his eyes no longer held her gaze; instead he stared over her head to the other side of the room as though scanning the area for an exit.

"Erik," Christine breathed, their original topic of conversation escaping her, "Have we met before?"

Erik's eyes darted back to hers once more as he leaned down in one graceful movement to her height, "I do believe I would have remembered meeting someone as lovely as you," he breathed in her ear.

Christine's knees trembled and gave way, while the blush on her cheeks flushed across her chest. Erik gripped her tightly and stopped her from falling to the floor; her body becoming temporarily limp in his arms as he steadied her back to her feet.

"Are you well?" Erik muttered, "Come, it's too hot in here." His hands continued to clutch at her waist as he led her from the dance floor and into a quiet corridor. Christine breathed deeply, her heart slowing and returning to a somewhat normal beating pattern. Erik removed his hands from her waist as soon as they were clear of the party's crowd, but the cold feeling of her body once he had put some distance between them made Christine feel alone. She thought how curious it was that she was overcome by a longing to be touched by him once more. She avoided his gaze, feeling her embarrassment begin to control her emotions.

"I am sorry for my lack of judgement," Christine muttered, "I must have had too much wine this evening." She kept her eyes on her shoes, but the feeling of his gaze made her blush a fiercer shade of crimson. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Erik's hand twitch towards her cheek, but no there was no touch from him.

"Would you like to walk with me?" Erik asked, gesturing one of his elegant hands in her direction. Christine smiled sweetly and placed her hand in his. She stared at the contrast of size, hers small and feminine, his long fingered and bony, somewhat skeletal looking. It was frightfully cold upon first touch, but Christine felt glad that it wasn't drenched in sweat like Raoul's had been.

They proceeded down the corridor, the music from the main event becoming muffled the further they went. They spoke of music and Opera's, of Christine's work, and of her latest leading roles but none of the topics of conversation seemed to give her much detail into his background.

"Have you seen many Opera's here at the Populaire, Erik?" Christine asked.

"Of course, I have been attending shows here for years." His answers were still too vague for Christine's liking and yet her companion seemed unwilling to offer her more.

"I believe I would have heard of you, Monsieur, a gentleman such as yourself."

Erik stopped suddenly and turned to Christine, "Who said I was a gentleman, Mademoiselle?" He towered over her; her eyes stayed transfixed on his as though trapped in a trance. His scent wafted over her; the smell of some sort of masculine musk underlined with a sweet tang. It was pleasant and not too overpowering unlike some male cologne.

It was in that same moment, between trying to keep her thoughts from being clouded by his scent and trying to think of a witty answer, that she realised exactly where they stood. Their conversations had taken them wandering deep through the corridors of the Opera House until they stood outside of the private boxes and outside one box in particular: Box Five.

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_**A/N: I would love to know your opinion on this chapter. Please review!**_


	11. Chapter Eleven

_**A/N: Oh dear! It's been so long! I am sorry, please, enjoy this chapter.**_

_**Disclaimer: I own the idea only.**_

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**Chapter Eleven**

Erik sat slanted in a straight backed wooden chair, one arm had fallen limp to his side, the other clutching a large glass of blood red wine, absentmindedly swirling the contents in small circles. He stared out into the vast space of his study, eyes focussed specifically on one point: his music. The top of the grand piano in the corner of the room had been covered in pieces of parchment of all sizes, each with scribbled words, and deep black dots on thick lines; evidently the chord progressions of his masterpiece.

The fire in the grate had been burning for some hours, and was now beginning to die leaving the room in a sombre state. In a heap on the small rug in front of the fireplace, looking much like the sleeping form of an animal, lay the remains of the Red Death costume. Erik had departed from the event above and returned to his lair quite abruptly, and upon his arrival down below once more he had removed the outfit which he viewed to have been quite a ridiculous idea. He despised the idea of a Masquerade – of course, it was visually stunning, but he felt the very concept was mocking him; normal people, changing their everyday looks and finding amusement in hiding from their peers behind masks and costumes. The very thought baffled him, for every day of his pitiful excuse for a life he was made to hide away himself. His tormented past had ensured that he hid behind fake names, masks and expensive clothing for a terrible price. And although he did take a certain sense of pride in his appearance under these facades, he knew that all of it was for his own approval rather than for others.

Erik had initially locked himself away in the confines of his study, with the full intention to compose for as long as it took; days, weeks, it didn't quite matter to him. However, he had found himself highly distracted as of late, watching Christine for longer than he normally would after their lessons, spending time speaking to her into the early hours of the morning, sitting by her side as she rest in peaceful slumber. And even when he had found out about her agreement with the Vicomte, he had spent his time plotting away, deciding how he would force his way between them and win her back for good.

He had spent the most precious of minutes in the company of the one person he had always longed to know; she had spoken to him and looked deep into his eyes, all the while accepting him into her life. Erik knew he had the most perfect source of inspiration right at his fingertips, but holding onto the memories proved to be the hardest part. He had sat down at his piano, melodies forming in his mind, but escaping his grasp in the last second as he put ink to parchment.

So now he sat in the wooden chair, wine in hand, staring at the aftermath of his appalling attempt of writing even a bar of his so called 'masterpiece'. He had cursed, and by the look of what appeared to be his costume, tore it to shreds in a rage. Erik knocked back the last of his glass, his lip curling at the taste of the lukewarm liquid dripping down his throat. When he reached for the bottle he found it oddly light in weight; he tore his eyes away from his fixation to answer his speculation. The bottle was empty.

"Typical." He muttered. He dropped the bottle on the floor, listening to the clunk of the glass hitting the wood, echoing loudly throughout the room. He sunk back into his chair, this time closing his eyes and trying with all his might to envision once more what had happened that night.

_Christine's eyes had widened as she stared past Erik and to the entrance to the box. He noted her distraction and chuckled, unable to hide a slight dark undertone, "You aren't superstitious, are you?" he mocked._

_She didn't say anything, "I dare say even the infamous Opera Ghost is enjoying tonight's festivities," Erik whispered in her ear, placing his cool hands on her bare shoulders. She shivered, the feeling sending either gentle but pleasant shivers down her spine, or a sign of repulsion. As she hadn't shifted away from his touch, he took it as the former. _

_Christine turned slowly, pressing her hands gently against his chest, a look of confusion on her delicate features; "how do you know about that?" she asked. She seemed to examine the only part of him which was visible to her, her eyes flickering between his own as she tried to read the secrets within. _

"_Secrets in this place never stay that way for long." Erik answered, trying to make a genuine smile meet his eyes. He watched as Christine raised an eyebrow at his words, but she said nothing. Forcing another small smile; he clasped her hands in his and continued with his response, "When you visit a place like this as much as I do, you hear a lot of things." She stared at him for a further while, apparently deciding upon his answer._

_He guided her towards the entrance to the box to which she didn't complain or refuse; on the contrary, she looked like she was trying to hide her excitement and wonder. Erik felt a strange sense of nerves building in the pit of his stomach when he realised he was effectively letting her into part of his world; she of course had no idea. He watched Christine as much as possible. She took in the exquisite interior; first the floor and its deep blood red carpet with an outline of gold which ran along the bottom of the four walls; then the two stylish chairs of the same colours angled at exactly forty-five degrees towards the stage – which he positioned himself. He heard a gasp escape her lips, though it sounded restricted, like she had tried to hide her exclamation as she took in the most splendid view across the auditorium._

_She had walked instantly towards the balcony and positioned herself against the edge. Gentle candles were lit around the vast space beyond the box's walls, illuminating the exits of the auditorium clearly as though a performance were taking place at that very moment. Erik marvelled at the way the dim light of the opera box shone through her curls. Each strand seemed to be laced with a hint of a copper shade within the deep chestnut, soft and light as a feather and yet so thick. _

_He edged closer, breathing in the scent of her perfume; everything about her was breath taking. Ever so carefully, he moved his hands through her hair to the very bottom of her curls, feeling her shiver at his gentle movement. He smiled inwardly; he loved the impact of his caress on her little frame._

"_It's stunning, isn't it?" he muttered in his melodious voice. _

_Christine turned slowly on the spot. Erik had been so engrossed in playing gently with the soft strands of her hair that he hadn't realised just how close he had become to her. She jumped backwards slightly in surprise at finding his face so close to her own. He let go of the strands of hair still clutched by the very tips of his fingers, and brought his eyes up to hers. There was a fire burning within her eyes with an emotion he couldn't quite place. Christine held his gaze as she lifted one hand slowly towards his mask._

"_Who are you?" she whispered, her fingers clutching the bottom of the mask._

_Erik jerked himself out of the trance that her gaze had upon him and lunged forward so suddenly that Christine didn't have time to react. The anger pulsing through his body made him temporarily blind with his actions; his left hand shot towards Christine's throat as the mask was ripped from his face in one swift movement. He twisted her around to face away from him once more, but kept her tightly bound against his chest; she was almost paralysed from the strength in which he held her. Her breathing came in shallow gasps beneath the pressure of his hand at her throat; she lifted her hand to his, gripping at his cool fingers and trying to loosen his hold on her. Erik was consumed by his anger that all he could think about was getting the mask back in his possession._

_He moved his right hand across her waist and towards the outstretched arm holding the death's head. Christine shifted beneath his weight then, but showed an odd sort of amusement in his struggle; through gasped breaths she exhaled small giggles as she tried to wriggle free from his hold._

_Her laughter sent waves of confusion through his mind; here he was, struggling to acquire a vital part to his disguise, almost strangling his Christine through the anger coursing through him and instead of witnessing terror from her, she found the whole attack to be a delightful game! How curious it was to listen to her. Erik loosened his grip slightly, the annoyance ebbing away with every passing chuckle and even bringing a small smile to his own face._

"_Why do you hide behind this mask so?" Christine gasped through laughter._

_Erik's hand closed around the edge of the mask and pulled it from her grip. Her gentle fingers closed around thin air as she turned on her heel and pouted in his direction. With the mask replaced and feeling more at ease, Erik wrapped his long arms around Christine's waist and pulled her closer._

"_Why can there be no mystery to life anymore, Christine?" he replied, his voice as smooth as velvet. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her chest shake with each uneven intake of breath. She edged ever closer, with her lips seeming to pucker slightly in his direction. He watched gentle dimples form in her reddening cheeks, his pulse running at a mile a minute as the realisation of what she was implying set in. Erik licked his drying lips, and contemplated the outcomes of this upcoming action; would she realise he had never done this before? Would she flee? And what if he was only imagining that she wanted this as much as he did?_

_Erik stroked a cool finger along her flushed cheekbone, guiding it downwards and along her jaw. He examined the sweet softness of her milky skin, his thumb now lightly tracing her full and parted lips. Christine's cool breath tickled at his fingertips, "your beauty knows no bounds." He whispered._

_It was in that moment of pure adrenaline that Erik closed what little distance there was between them and connected his lips with hers. He felt clumsy, like he had forced himself upon her and was keeping her there in a motionless embrace. He knew not what to do, and hoped that she could somehow inspire him in this physical act, quite like she did with his music. His hand rested on the side of her neck – its last position after tracing her delicate jaw line, but as Christine clutched onto his jacket, he felt the passion between them building his confidence vastly. His hands were all over her then, in her hair, down her spine, clutching at her hips and pulling her closer – even though they were as close as they could possibly be. Christine's fingers had entwined in his hair with a gentle tugging driving him wild; he gasped and broke away from her lips to plant quick yet still gentle kisses on the supple skin of her neck._

_And then it was over as quickly as it had started; Christine breathed heavily as Erik contained his enthusiasm and stepped backwards into the shadows. Her hand shot up to her lips as she felt for the kisses that she had craved so deeply. She turned her back once more to her chaperon making the space between them feeling somewhat awkward unlike before._

_He couldn't understand why she hid from him. Part of him wanted to call to her, to explore her mind at this very moment and witness her true feelings. Erik could only assume that deep down he had disgusted her, although her reactions had proved quite positive. _You were too forward with her,_ his mind explained, and yet had it not been her who had been hinting for those last few minutes?_

_He didn't wait around. With a swift flick of his wrist he opened a trick wall, which revealed a shadowy passageway leading down many levels to one of the cellars beneath the stage. This passageway was one of Erik's favourite escape routes used as an exit only. Once stepping into it, the entrance would seal automatically, leaving one in complete blackness; after two steps forward the passage turns into a vertical drop designed to petrify the unsuspecting intruder into a faint lasting long enough for Erik to arrive and punish them for their interference. _

_His exit was so smooth and silent that he felt sure it would take Christine minutes to realise that he had disappeared at all. He knew that his departure was the right thing to do, and yet as soon as he straightened his posture after the vast drop, he could feel the pull of Christine's heart, its steady beat calling his name…_

Erik shook his head lightly, silencing the voices and the memories and bringing himself once more back to the now. The room was in complete darkness, with what used to be a roaring fire in the grate now completely dead. His eyes adjusted once more to the shadowy interior which was his home. There was alcohol still coursing through his system, though it had always had a curious effect on him, heightening instead of slowing his reactions and senses, intensifying pain instead of numbing. He often wondered why he even bothered with such weak intoxications when there were other stimulating options to be explored.

Erik rose from the hard wooden chair to stand straight and tall, stretching all of the knots out of his body. He raised both arms above his head, his fingertips grazing the cold stone ceiling; he had built the rooms around him many years ago, hence the ceilings standing only an arm's length taller than he was. The home had been designed with simplicity in mind, as Erik had never known the reason for having such a vast mansion of a home, with breezy corridors for just one or two people. It was true that the area beneath the Opera House had its restrictions for such things, and Erik had accumulated a fortune to make many noblemen in France jealous. But his home by the lake only contained a modest six rooms, with the one in which he currently stood being the largest for his musical needs.

He wandered over to the door and grasped the handle tightly. His eyes ached with exhaustion; how long had it been since he had slept? Erik had a tendency to disregard everything which one might deem as _important _when he had his mind set on something. The normal function of a human being, to rest, eat and take part in everyday activities, would be completely forgotten about until it became absolutely vital to his wellbeing.

As his vision began to blur, and his head began to spin, he decided it was probably time to retire. He ran his index finger over his lips lightly, savouring the pleasure once more and basking in the knowledge that she had, in fact, kissed him back that night.


	12. Chapter Twelve

_**A/N: I am back! I have been away on holiday so sorry for such a long delay in this chapter. Here it is, and I hope you enjoy the continuation to **_**His Voice**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own the character names or places in this story, only the general ideas.**_

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**Chapter Twelve**

_**One week later**_

_She could feel his gentle touch upon her shoulders, the coolness of his skin making her shiver inwardly; though she felt oddly warm, she couldn't quite understand why his touch was not as pleasant as she had expected it to be. Christine raised a hand to her forehead, finding light beads of sweat clinging to the stray strands of her curls surrounding her face. She gulped; her next breath coming in jagged and harsh._

_All was silent around her, as though she was enclosed within a padded cell like chamber, with no sound having a chance of entering or escaping. She had known from the start that her companion was different, with his strangely bright eyes glittering through the holes in his mask, and the unnatural appearance of his pale, almost skeletal hands; now she was able add his stealth like movements to the list. He moved with absolute precision, yet never making a sound; not even a swish of fabric from his billowing clothing or a slight indication of breathing – almost like he wasn't human._

_She couldn't bare it any longer; Christine turned to examine a man who held so much mystery._

_But he was nowhere to be found._

_Christine stood impeccably still, with only her eyes searching the room. With their movement a flickering candle light would extinguish until only one remained. Christine dared herself to look towards that last corner, but the inevitable darkness made her panic; she did not want to be left alone in the haunted surroundings of Box Five. _

_She shrieked; her heart pumping cold blood through her veins at a mile a minute. Nothing could be heard but the heavy _thump thump _of her blood pulsing in her ears. Christine turned in countless circles until she collapsed in a disoriented heap on the floor below._

_The smell of a masculine musk clung to the carpet Christine lay upon; it wafted up her nostrils with each intake of breath, raising straight to her head and almost causing her to vomit. With an ear against the floor Christine tried to focus on anything but her upset stomach; she noted a curious sound of ominous chords from a distant organ breaking the silence and under toning the sound of her pulse. The music was fashioned in the most twisted yet peaceful way. It made her shiver involuntarily, the progression repeating through her mind until she passed out where she lay._

Christine jolted awake at once, loud and terrified shrieks escaping her just like they had done in her dream. She blinked insanely, spots of glittery lights fluttering before her eyes as she tried to adjust to the darkness. Her curls were matted around her face and down her back, her bedclothes clinging to her slight form, sweat glistening on her exposed chest.

And she began to cry. Christine had not felt so alone in seven long years; the same dream, _nightmare_, had been haunting since the night of the masquerade ball. She had thought that her feelings of rejection and abandonment would subside in a quicker space of time, after all he was just a _stranger_, but she was more wrong than she dared imagine.

The hurt she felt was still so difficult for her to fully understand; that night had held so many new experiences for her that were all now terrible memories she would have to live with. She had wondered why the other girls acted as they did, to attract the attention of strange men and engage in a 'fling', and then move onto the next at a moment's notice. She could never see herself being one of those girls, and yet that night had been full of men just taking what they wanted. Christine had placed herself into a cold bath that same night, scrubbed her skin until it was red raw while silently allowing the tears to fall until her eyes ran dry. She had been left to deal with the pain she felt, though she didn't know how to cope; deep inside she was still that timid orphan girl from long ago.

Christine had felt such a connection with _him_, and although now she knew it to be completely ridiculous, at the time she had felt like she would have succumb to him, that she could have given everything to him. A spur of the moment feeling, obviously, yet nightmares always returned and forced more feelings from her, each night.

She hadn't uttered his name since their meeting but it constantly ran through her mind like an endless song lyric. Why had the stranger taken such a toll on her fragile heart and innocent mind? More tears fell from her eyes in gushing waterfalls, her breathing becoming sharp and painful on her chest with each intake. _How many more tears am I to shed?_

The door opened slowly, revealing a ghostly pale hand extending through the gloom which clutched at a small candle. The flame's glow cast odd shapeless shadows on the grey walls of the dormitory. Christine blinked ferociously through watery eyes, trying desperately to find out who had entered her room in the middle of the night. As Meg's heart shaped face peered through the darkness donning a worried expression, Christine's fear ebbed away and relief slowly swept over her like a cool wave.

"Christine?"

She began to shake violently; they were mixed with spine tingling shivers from the cool breeze entering with her friend, and her dry heaving from the aftermath of lack of air in her lungs and her crying state. Meg practically ran across the room, placing the candle down on the bedside cabinet in such frenzy that it almost extinguished in the breeze. She placed her hands around Christine's delicate shoulders, holding her tightly until the shivering subsided and the heaving turned into occasional sniffles.

"What is wrong, Christine? You've been so distant as of late, please, talk to me."

Meg's arms wrapped tightly around Christine's thin waist in a sisterly embrace; they sat as they used to when they were children, staying awake and swapping stories until the early hours of the morning. Those times were past now and Christine was beginning to feel the effects of a sleepless night. Her eyes itched in exhaustion; it had been days since she had had a decent night's sleep. She shook her head slowly, Meg's golden hair tickling her cheek. "I cannot."

And then there was silence for the next hour. The pair leant against the cold stone wall beside Christine's bed, their movements unchanging, the only sound from their relaxed syncopated breathing.

_Meg truly has the patience of a Saint,_ thought Christine. She breathed deep through her nose, the smell of stale sweat emanating from her bed clothes;_ and she is kind enough not to be bothered about the smell._ She felt so ashamed, of her complete lack of strength at a silly nightmare, of her choice to bottle up all feelings, and of her abandonment of her friend. So much had changed as they grew older that her relationships with the ones who truly mattered seemed long within her reach; both of their careers had taken the road to success, and yet they travelled down such different paths.

"Meg," her throat was dry from the lack of use. She tried clearing it, but the scratching only made it worse. A hoarse croaking escaped her lips as she struggled to speak once more. Meg had released her hold on Christine and risen from her crouch on the bed. She stretched her long legs, easing the aches and crossed the small dormitory in two lithe steps. From there she returned with a small glass of water from the sink, though it was not the most ideal drinking aid. Christine took the glass willingly, her nose wrinkling at the metallic taste of the liquid within; the cool water felt marvellous against her drying throat, like a plant receiving its first drink after drought. She cleared her throat once more.

"Christine. Are you alright?"

Christine nodded. The more water she consumed the more human she felt; she hated the emptiness one experiences after shedding so many tears. Meg filled the glass several times before Christine attempted to speak again.

"Oh, Meg," she cleared her throat, "I don't know even where to start..."

Meg offered her an encouraging smile just visible in the light of dawn seeping through the room, "take it slow."

Christine took a deep breath, steadying herself. She glanced at Meg's heart shaped face in the darkness; even in the shadows she could make out her features; her thin lips and pointed nose. She looked so much like her mother.

A sudden realisation came to Christine's mind; she wondered why she had not thought of it before? The path in which her friend had chosen had helped make the name Giry as well known as it had been twenty five years previously when Madame Giry had been in her prime. Many a theatre goer had been sceptical that Meg would possess the same amount of talent, but she had impressed several men in Paris and the surrounding towns and she had made various contacts in recent months. Who better to speak to about her masquerade encounter than the most popular performer in the Populaire?

She breathed deep once more, choosing her questions carefully, "Meg," how could she find the words? "You know many of the gentlemen who visit the Populaire, yes?"

There was a pause from Meg; her blonde eyebrows rose, "what are you implying?" she asked with a sceptical look.

Christine's lips flicked up at the corners in a small smile, though it didn't meet her eyes; "nothing like _that_, Meg."

Her friend returned the smile and giggled nervously "I suppose I know of a _few_…"

Christine could feel her pulse quicken, her stomach dropped in anxiety at the impending answer "have you heard of a Monsieur… _Erik_?" Her voice cracked.

Meg's eyebrows creased together in deep thought, "I don't recognise the name, Christine. Are you sure he's a regular?"

_Of course,_ she thought. No one had seen them together; no one knew his name; had she imagined the whole thing? Had she consumed that much champagne that she couldn't distinguish between truth and fiction? _It could explain his sudden disappearance, _Christine reasoned. She ran her fingers across her bottom lip_, _the internal battle still raging inside of her head; n_o,_ _I couldn't have. It was too real; _he_ was too real._

"…Christine?" Meg's voice ripped through the silence bringing Christine back to reality. "Is this what has been troubling you, a man?"

She hung her head at the sound of Meg's incredulous words, for she was right; much worse happens to others on a daily basis and she was crying over a _man_. How ridiculous it now all seemed. "There was more to it than that," she whispered, "he was unlike any man I had ever met."

Meg's reply was plain and simple; "that's love."

Christine head raised slowly, her eyes widening at Meg's observation, "Love?"

* * *

Raoul, Vicomte de Changy, had avoided taking his regular trips to the Opera Populaire after the masquerade ball. He had on regular occasions ordered one of his servant's deliver letters to Monsieur's Firmin and Andre instead, with specific instructions of what he felt should be done to earn his continued patronage. It seemed that something had upset him, and yet no one dared pry.

Instead they continued with the rehearsals for _Il Muto, _which were nearing completion. They had improved vastly, with no more comments from Monsieur Reyer regarding Christine's _off _vocals. As the opening night crept up on the company, Christine began to feel the strain of everyone's silent expectations. She noted the stares from her peers each time she opened her mouth to sing. After her initial success in _Hannibal_, everyone seemed to be expecting the same level of perfection in her next performance to which she was anxious not to disappoint.

Christine's mind had been cluttered with worries which were now slowly becoming distant memories. After her conversation with Meg she had finally been able to find some strength, although she still didn't want to admit the truth to herself. For many years now she had thought her heart had belonged to only one person; her tutor and Angel. She had never imagined that she could fall for someone so easily. When she thought of the whole situation she realised her Angel had been distant for almost two weeks. Had she upset him, angered him? His silence made her wonder if she had been rude in their lessons as she remained easily distracted. Christine was eager to make her upcoming performance a triumph to show her dedication to him.

Christine gazed into a large floor length mirror which stood in a secluded part of the backstage area on a Thursday evening; the opening night of _Il Muto_. Her costume was in place; the wig standing tall and platinum blonde with pink flowers embedded within; the makeup she wore made hardly any difference to her pale complexion, and yet the makeup artists had insisted in covering her face completely; she almost looked albino. Her dress was extremely slim fitting on the bodice, making her waist look unnaturally thin; it too was pink and laced with intricate flower patterns. A thick skirt flowed from her hips to the floor protruding wide due to the padding of several petticoats; she wondered how she could endure a two hour performance in such a heavy outfit! Christine felt inwardly relieved that she would be seated for the most part.

A gentle shuffling behind her made Christine turn curiously; she could see a small shadow gradually growing in size as the owner made their way closer to where she stood. From round the corner appeared the Vicomte, dress clothes in immaculate condition, top hat in hand and a slightly timid expression on his features.

"Christine?"

Her face showed no sign of emotion; she turned back to the mirror, examining her costume once more, "shouldn't you be in your private box, Monsieur?"

"We need to talk, Christine." Raoul replied calmly.

She chose to ignore his response entirely. Christine turned sharply on her heels and headed towards the stage as the opera was about to begin.

"Christine!"

Raoul's fingers closed around her tiny wrist, "let go of me," she snarled through gritted teeth.

"I am not letting you walk away from me again."

"We have_ nothing_ to talk about." She felt stronger than her voice sounded; it betrayed her at the last moment, breaking as she shook with anger. Christine ripped her hand from Raoul's grip, his fingernails scratching at her delicate skin.

"But Christine, are you going to throw away our friendship over this?"

Christine's jaw dropped in amazement for she could not believe what she was hearing. She gently rubbed at the skin his nails had broken, "your act of supposed _passion _was disgraceful."

Raoul hung his head at her words, "I am sorry I upset you; I meant no harm." He shuffled on each foot before looking her deep in the eyes, "I took you aside to ask you an important question that night, and I guess I became a little carried away."

"What question?" Christine demanded. She watched as Raoul's eyes scanned the area, his fumbling demeanour from the masquerade night returning. He opened his mouth but with no sound escaping.

"I haven't the time for this, Monsieur, good day to you."

She continued towards the wings as the curtains opened and stepped out onto the stage with her head held high leaving Raoul to once more watch her walk away. The adrenaline coursing throughout her body only aided her determination to put recent events behind her.

* * *

_**A/N: I say this every chapter, but another on the way asap. It has already been written**_


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